


8:11

by gryffindored



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Tension, tinder au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-06-24 11:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15629754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffindored/pseuds/gryffindored
Summary: A modern re-telling of Aelin Galathynius and Rowan Whitethorn's relationship, where they meet on tinder. Snark ensues, general annoyance is prevalent, and there'll be a lot of sexual tension because COME ON. More characters will be added in later chapters, and rating is set at Mature in anticipation of future chapters, with potential to become Explicit at times (side-eye emoji). This is a mutli-chapter fic and I don't have a strict timeline of when I'll be releasing chapters, so I hope you enjoy all the same!





	1. Chapter 1

## chapter _i_

* * *

 

Left. Left. Left.

She rolled her eyes, the dim amber light from the salt lamp set atop her nightstand illuminating her features rather darkly. Circles lined her eyes, shadows crossed her brows, and the wind from a low-powered fan blew hair across her forehead causing a tickle of discomfort. With a disgruntled groan, Aelin shifted in bed and set down her phone.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek, fingernails digging into her palms as she considered her options. On one hand, there resided in her top drawer a very wonderful, well-used toy. On the other hand, the peskier of two hands, she fucking missed flirting. The latter thought is what propelled her, with an air of absolute self-loathing, to grab once more for her mobile device and blind herself by the world of  _Tinder_.

She proceeded to swipe (left, left, possibly right; no, definitely left) with moderate disinterest. And as the clock shifted from the one o’clock hour onwards, she felt about ready to give up her endeavor.

Aelin Galathynius was decidedly as picky with her men as she was with her linen. Some women might, and did, balk at this: often there’d be a waggling of their fingers and raising of brows while they rattled off a list of all the reasons she’d never find a nice man to settle down with if she carries on with such standards. But fuck that, Aelin thought with a snort — if she was going to spend money on silk sheets and lace lingerie, it was sure as hell not being shared with any mediocre Tom, Dick, or Harry off the street. She had no problem keeping to herself, damnit, if that’s what the universe had in store for her. And frankly, after her past relationship attempts, it felt an awful lot like the stars and what-have-you fully intended to keep her single for as long as her days.

Lysandra, universe be damned, had other plans.

It was two nights ago when a drunk Lysandra Ennar had insisted she start dating.

“You haven’t been with anyone since Sam.” The name bordered dangerous territory, Aelin’s best friend was fully aware, but still she pressed forward with a courage that could be born only of whiskey and the two A.M. hour. She’d already taken hold of the blond’s phone, the slim rectangle poised in her long fingers. “I know he was special, and things ended — bad. But come on, Aelin. You’re  _young_. And you’ve got so much to offer. It’s about time you’ve —”

“I’ve had sex, thank you very much,” Aelin interrupted with a casual air as she inspected her nails, feigning indifference.

“Don’t you lie to me, you —“ Lysandra furrowed a perfectly groomed brow as she grappled for the proper insult before finishing weakly, “— liar.”

“I’m  _not_. Why would I lie about that?”

“You’re the queen of withholding information and lying.”

“You’re right, I am,” Aelin accepted indignantly. “And I  _withheld_  information that I have, indeed, slept with someone.” She paused, chewing her bottom lip at the memory. “Once.” A quirked brow from her friend posed a question, so she offered further, “Chaol.”

“ _Him? What? When?”_ The syllables came sputtered and splayed, emphasized with a wild blinking of her mild green eyes.

“Yes. Missionary. Several months ago.”

Lys blinked. “My  _what_  wasn’t a question about what position you lost your damn virginity in. Although I have to say, I’m a bit surprised. With your knack for dramatics I thought for sure you’d have made it somewhat more interesting a story.”

“It takes two and all that. He’s polite as all, or haven’t you noticed? I thought asking him to let me drip hot wax on him and then take me against a wall might have upset his delicate sensibilities.”

“Oh, of course. I forgot how considerate of other people’s feelings you are.”

“Brat,” she said through a smirk, taking a swig of her beer and polishing off the bottle.

“Hot wax?” Lysandra asked after a moment, to which Aelin only shrugged and went back to inspecting her fingernails.

Her best friend took advantage of the moment to continue her careful clicks on Aelin’s phone. She knew she could stop her, knew she needed only to protest further and prod her a few times in the ribs with her toe. Lysandra, for all her confidence and convincing, would never desire putting her friend in a place of discomfort. Their friendship had been tumultuous at best up until only a few months ago. What felt like a lifetime of misunderstandings and improper communication finally cleared and made way for an immediate friendship. Aelin, admittedly, was thankful for such a shift. Not often does one get a chance to right their wrongs. And maybe, just maybe, they both had a lot of growing up to do.

“Here.”

“What have you done?” Aelin cautiously took back her phone, eyeing the illuminated screen skeptically.

“Tinder,” Lys said pleasantly, a satisfied smile on her pretty face.

“Tinder.”

“Yes, that’s what I said. Surely you know what Tinder is, or do you live under a rock?”

“I know what  _Tinder_  is,” Aelin said, wrinkling her nose. “But why am I on it?”

“Well now that I know about this whole hot wax kink of yours, it seemed like the obvious choice. You’ll find plenty of men into that. Or whatever you want. Sometimes you’ll even get a date or two out of it, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I’m not  _looking_  for anything, Lysandra!  _You_  are. This — oh, why the  _hell_  did you use  _this photo_?” Aelin squealed.

Lysandra latched onto the distraction and launched into a very complimentary, well-worded explanation about her choice of photos for Aelin’s profile. The girls shared another drink during an introductory lesson to the world of Tinder before three in the morning came and went and Aelin had crashed heavy into sleep on her friend’s couch.

Aelin supposed Lysandra had a point, somewhere in there. If nothing else, it was an easy platform for a confidence boost and some flirting when wanted.

If only the men weren’t so boring.

For every one profile she liked, there were fifty she swiped left on. She couldn’t help that she scrutinized every detail of the profiles. For instance, she learned quickly that if his only photo was a close-up of his abs it was wise to swipe away. Two exchanged messages with that one had landed a dick pic in her inbox. She learned, too, that if their bio was just a series of vague emojis then she probably wouldn’t want to talk to them. If their bio was too long, the same theory holds true. Ultimately, what Aelin quickly discovered was that there was very little of interest on this stupid dating app and she already had a long list of mental notes of which to berate Lysandra for the next time she saw the girl.

Left. Left. Left.

She was about to throw in the towel, her eyes heavy in want of sleep, when a profile caught her interest.

_Rowan, 27._

The first thing Aelin noticed was his shockingly silver hair. White-blond, perhaps? Something bright and young, not at all the wiry, dull grey indicative of age. He was, after all, only a handful of years older than her. She tapped for the next photo, in which he was engaged in some kind of activity. She found herself thankful for this, able to pick up on the sheen of sweat across his sculpted chest, skin golden and tanned enough that it had her wondering if he frequently ran around without a shirt on. She tapped again, and in this one, his eyes were raised to the camera and it looked almost candid, caught off-guard. His eyes were a remarkable shade of green, that much she could tell, lined with dark lashes. His jaw was full of sharp lines and she could see a smattering of tattoos creeping out of his shirt and up his neck, angling around said sharp jaw. And while Aelin never found herself particularly attracted to men who looked like they spent too-long in a tattoo chair, she found the effect to be quite striking all up. He looked severe, all hard edges. In many ways, probably. If nothing else, her curiosity was piqued.

_Right._

Aelin woke in the morning with her phone clattering to the floor beside her bed. She supposed she fell asleep with it in her hand as she waited for any kind of response from the man. That seemed to be a downfall with this whole Tinder thing — finally, someone who she found fascinating enough and there she was, waiting for him to like her back. Pathetic. And annoying. She groaned.

She struggled out of bed, bare feet meeting plush carpet as she reached for her short silk robe and shrugged into it. It was, she knew fully well, an active decision to carry on her morning routine before checking whatever notifications on her app she might have. As Aelin began brewing a pot of coffee after scowling at her reflection in the bathroom mirror for too long, however, she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to her cellphone.

The gurgling sound of caffeine brewing did little to ground her. The heavy, harsh scent that filled her nostrils failed further. And as she took her first sip of the blessed black liquid, Aelin’s feet were moving of their own accord back towards her room.

With the second sip, she plopped unceremoniously to the ground beside her bed and grabbed the phone from its discarded location hidden half beneath her bedskirt.

With a third gulp, Aelin’s thumb was pressed heavy on her home button until her fingerprint unlocked it and the screen flashed bright even in the morning light. With a swipe and a tap she found herself swiftly in the app, where there was —

Nothing.

She closed out of the app and re-opened it, her brows furrowed tight together when, still, there wasn’t a single notification.

“Fuck you, too,” she mumbled, trying to ignore the irrational pit in her stomach and instead filled it with more swigs of hot, strong coffee.

It wasn’t even like she knew the man apart from his name, silver hair, and muscles. His profile was decidedly blank, except to indicate he hailed from Doranelle and his age. Between those few details, Aelin knew it was positively absurd how irritated she felt. And it was irritation, wasn’t it? The red in her cheeks heating to her ears and the slight desire to vomit just a little. Those were all mild frustrations, not indicative of any true feeling. Besides, it wasn’t even proper rejection. For all she knew, he’d just not come across her profile. That was logical, Aelin decided. It was thought enough to cool her skin just a bit. Still, just in case, she supposed it would behoove her to double check the work Lysandra did on her profile. Maybe the order of photos was all wrong.

She was just about to reevaluate her pictures when the screen flashed at her, curly white letters declaring “ _It’s a Match!_ ” and shoving her face next to Rowan’s.

Aelin’s stomach dropped as if she were plummeting down a dip on a rollercoaster, the sensation making her momentarily dizzy. “Well, well. About time,” she scowled, her voice hoarse with morning and coffee. But the judgment was overlooked as she moved into their chat window, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

She paused, considered, and typed:  _Who the ever-loving fuck uses Tinder at eight in the morning?_

Send.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aelin's first endeavor into Tinder isn't quite going how she expected it to ...

## chapter _ii_

* * *

 

_Who the ever-loving fuck uses Tinder at eight in the morning?_

_8:11. You do, apparently._

Aelin scowled at the response, biting back the smirk that insisted on crossing her features due to his rapid reply. The time, and three words: that was all he had offered her, and already she’d spent more time frustrated by the man than not. Perhaps she wasn’t doing this Tinder thing right. Regardless of rights or wrongs, she couldn’t deny the slight flutter in her chest at knowing he replied so quickly to her. It was that undeniable infatuation that had her fingers typing out a reply with equal fervor.

 _Any time before noon blurs together. It’s all the same. Anyway, it’s only because I got the notification that I’m on this stupid thing so early._ Aelin typed the lie easily.

_Notifications on? Isn’t that a bit desperate?_

The frown this time was deeper, this one significantly dimming any remaining thrill from before. She felt her cheeks grow hot and red at the implications. Aelin considered herself many things, and desperate was certainly not one of them. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, phone feeling heavy in her hands.

_At least I’ve got the excuse. What’s your reason for being on a dating app at 8 in the morning?_

There was a pause after her reply — one she, upon reading and re-reading, deemed perfectly nonchalant yet still maintaining an accusatory air. She was unable to discern whether the hesitation gave her pleasure or more frustration. Probably the latter, if their current run of things was any indication.

_Hook-ups._

Her mouth went dry and she felt her eyebrows jump of their own accord at the reply.

 _What_?, she sent, the response immediate.

_It’s an app for hook-ups. Not dating. At least, that’s what my friend explained to me at this morning after downloading the damned app and not letting me delete it, as was my plan all along after humoring the poor guy._

She bit back a smirk, unable to help herself, remembering her own friend’s pestering insistence. Any amusement was quickly wiped away once an elaboration arrived in a second message. Whether it was as an afterthought or for effect, she couldn’t be sure.

She blinked several times as she took in the words.

_It’s also what he said when he swiped yes on your profile for me. So as you can see, Aelin, it wasn’t ME using Tinder at eight in the morning but rather my friend, who’s probably still drunk._

The red in her cheeks turned deeper as she stared at his words, embarrassment flaring throughout her body. It was his third piece of a reply that had her chucking her phone across her floor.

_And you, using the ever-loving fuck out of Tinder at eight in the morning. Pardon, 8:11._

x

She hated him.

That’s all there was to it. The attraction gave way to absolute frustration as she re-read the conversation three different times throughout her day. Her annoyance settled on her skin with a prickling heat each time, the words fueling a fiery negativity in a way she’d never before experienced.

It began with the word  _desperate_ , the rage roiling within her. This Rowan was a stranger knowing nothing about her apart for some precisely picked photographs and a profile telling only that she disliked pineapple on pizza (her own doing, having deleted Lysandra’s too-detailed, too-wordy biography), and yet he went about making unfounded assumptions. It was, she childishly thought, unfair.

 _Fucking_   _unfair_ , she amended to feel just a bit less childish even in the confines of her own brain.

Then, once Aelin began to get over her dismay at the ever-descriptive  _desperate_ , she was only angered anew at the phrase “probably still drunk.” At first, she missed the implication; but upon further inspection, she couldn’t help but feel it was yet another jab Rowan tossed her way. She didn’t like how it sat with her, the notion that if said friend weren’t drunk he’d never have swiped in her favor.

The icing on the cake was his condescending use of her name.  _So as you can see, Aelin_ , he’d written. It boiled her blood. She thought her skin to be on fire: through frustration, through embarrassment, through a significant loss in her dignity and pride.

Aelin.

Aelin, Aelin,  _Aelin_. Her name felt like a weapon there, beaming up at her from the screen of her phone. A weapon he brandished without a care in the world. She could cope with many things in life and certainly had, without a doubt, but not the wielding of her own identity against her very own self. It felt like such a deeply intimate violation.

She was halfway through a glass of bourbon, the clock only just chiming five, when she reached that precise insult during her fourth re-read. By this point, Aelin hated herself as much as, if not more than, she loathed Rowan, 27, of Tinder. She hated that he’d gotten under her skin, hitting all the marks she barely knew she had. She hated that she spent the better part of her day dwelling on the entire situation. She hated that she let this happen.

The way she saw it, she had two tasks to complete with as much immediacy as possible. First, berate Lysandra for inadvertently and indirectly bringing this new level of shame into her life. Second, delete the ever-loving fuck out of ever-loving Tinder.

She was in the process of searching for a profile delete button when a message popped up on her screen.

 _Cat got your tongue_?

Her eyes narrowed, her heart jumping into her chest as she fumbled with the phone in her hand. Rationally, Aelin knew she ought not respond. “Don’t do it,” she grumbled to herself. “Bitch,  _don’t do it_.”

The rational side of her brain, as was usual, lost the argument for control.

 _Some of us have lives. Things to do_. Oh, the ease of lying. Aelin’s fingers typed the words without worry, thankful he wasn’t present to see the flush of her cheeks.

_I didn’t take you as someone to relinquish the last word is all._

She actually laughed out loud at that, a wry sort of sound twinged with absolute irritation. A swig of bourbon was had before she answered:  _You haven’t taken me at all._

_Yet._

His reply came too fast for it to not be a goading, antagonizing remark. Was this his form of foreplay, she wondered with a roll of her eyes. She enjoyed imagining the man preening in his living room, chest puffed out and entirely pleased with himself.

_Mighty presumptuous of you._

_Not really. We are on Tinder after all._

_You’re a bastard._ A gloriously fit, painfully gorgeous specimen of  _bastard_ , Aelin thought, but a bastard all the same. He probably was the sort to know it, too.

 _I know_.

 _Of course you do_ , she spat back — or as much as a text could be viewed as spatting. She glared into her phone’s screen as if it could transfer the emotion to his.Her phone was silent for a moment, during which Aelin took the opportunity to polish off her drink. Feeling bold without cause, she filled her suspiciously silent screen by adding:  _Cat got your tongue_?

 _I’ve got more than one correspondence here._ He said, quick to respond once more. Not just once, but twice.  _Fenrys swiped on some ravishing women, Aelin, let me tell you._

 _If this is you requesting a threesome, Rowan, I’ll have to politely decline,_ Aelin typed, hoping the use of his name would barb as much as her own did when used like weaponry.

_You don’t strike me as polite._

She wrinkled her nose at that, offended. He might have been right on many of his accusations — after all, she did not often yield the last word nor did she classify herself as particularly polite by any stretch of the imagination.  _He_  didn’t know that, though. This man behind a screen. He didn’t know anything, Aelin thought indignantly.

_Need I remind you, you don’t know me?_

And then? Nothing.

Aelin waited. And waited. And waited some more. She had stretched out in the plush armchair many a times, hoping to ease the aching in her limbs from sitting poised so long. A crease seemed permanently pressed between her brows from scowling at her iPhone. Usually a fan of such silence, she found herself in a particularly frazzled state of distress at Rowan’s distinct lack of reply.

It was six thirty at night when Aelin stood with such force that she almost made herself dizzy. She refused to sit around like this. She hated him, after all. Or had she forgotten? She’d rather be locked up in a closet for the rest of her days than turn into one of those girls who preened over the slightest bit of attention. After all, that’s what she’d done all day, wasn’t it? She had enough self-awareness to admit it to herself. And frankly? Fuck  _that_.

She scrolled determinedly into her text messages, finding Lysandra’s name; with a bit more force than necessary, Aelin typed out  _Get ready. We’re going out. You have 45 minutes._

x

The rooftop bar was nowhere they’d been before, but Aelin had read about it on an online listicle about the hottest spots in the city just that afternoon during one of the sparse moments she wasn’t dwelling over her Tinder mishap. It was still cold in the April night, but several heat lamps overhead and the power of many bodies packed into a tight space took care of any lingering chill. In fact, Aelin found herself almost too warm in her coat: a simple but effective black number made of pressed wool and secured closed with a leather belt at the waist, showing off her shape.

“It’s usually me demanding we go out,” Lysandra said, voice raised over the music while she slid a bill to the bartender to pay for their first round of drinks.

“I couldn’t sit in that damn apartment any more. Restless.”

“Any particular — cheers! — any particular  _reason_  we’re feeling restless?”

Aelin shrugged in a noncommittal gesture, taking a second large swig of her drink (some flourish of a cocktail that Lysandra insisted they order). She was thankful that her phone was tucked decidedly out of reach, hidden in the confines of a small leather clutch that hung from her wrist. It kept her, just barely, from reaching with desperation to check if any messages had come through on her Tinder.

“I didn’t realize I needed an excuse to want to have a couple of drinks.”

It was Lysandra’s turn to shrug. The girl eyed her golden-haired friend suspiciously, appraisingly. For a moment, Aelin half anticipated she’d inquire about whatever dating app adventures she may have had. Instead, Lysandra asked, “Is that a new lipstick?”

“Are you judging or do you want to steal it?”

“Please, our skin tones hardly match. Fiery red does  _not_  work on me, unless I’m going for  _clown_.”

“I was feeling bold.”

“And that’s different from —?” she quipped, her own simply glossed lips twitching into a smirk.

Aelin tilted her chin in a pleased look, kohl-painted lashes fluttering briefly. She moved to set her drink on the nearest empty bar space, waving her hands in front of her flushed face. “God, it’s fucking  _hot._ How is it this hot in  _April_.”

“Dunno. It’s all an illusion, babe. Bodies, booze, and — well, that about sums it up.”

The blond let out a small groan, undoing the belt at her waist and shrugging out of her coat. The action proved difficult with so many people pressed around her. Serves her right for going to a recently opened place, especially one just called out on a popular online news site. Still, Aelin supposed that’s what she wanted. She liked the distraction of being surrounded by bodies, by energies. If nothing else, it was nice to be given glances every now and again.

She’d shrugged out of one sleeve with relative ease, but the second proved a struggle in such confined space. She’d finally managed it, but not without sharply elbowing someone who was passing by her side. She spun to apologize, but the words stuck in her throat as her eyes lifted to the man standing now in front of her.

Aelin was quick to recognize Rowan, not sure whether she was thankful for or cursing the fact that he looked just as good in real life as he did in his photographs. His sharp face tilted down, a silvery strand of hair falling out of place across his brow. She noticed the flash of surprise as he shared her realization. It was only a sudden flicker, though — replaced quickly with a cool appraisal.

Deep green eyes dipped down and back up, studying her. Aelin felt her skin grow warm under his stare, but she was determined not to falter. Appearing unaffected, she slowly folded her coat over her forearm while she used the other to rest against the bar, fingers splayed at the edge. She drummed her nails, painted the same color as her lips, against the varnished wood.

“Are you going to apologize?” he asked, the tone antagonizing, at the very same moment she spat, “Are you stalking me?”

They were both silent a moment, eyes locked and awaiting the next move. They were like animals trapped in a ring, still gathering information on their opponent in attempt to anticipate their next strike. Aelin merely shifted her hips, a thin brow quirked upwards. With one arm tucked into her side and the other extended against the bar, she was fully aware her lean, black-clad figure was well on display. Lysandra was irritated by her friend’s lack of color, but the monochromatic effect wasn’t lost on Rowan. She knew, because she caught his eyes once against slipping down her body. Tight leggings with a leather panel on both out-seams showed off her legs, while the sheer flowing blouse showed a shadow of her waist beneath the longline bralette. The lace clung to her figure, poking out a respectable amount from the low-buttoned collar of her blouse.

He seemed to be waiting, still, for an apology but Aelin wasn’t keen to relent. Instead, she tugged at the open collar of her shirt, drawing attention to her chest. “Hot in here, isn’t it?” she said coyly, finally breaking the silence.

Rowan’s broad shoulders shrugged and Aelin’s eyes caught on the fit of his blazer as it strained just the right amount under the movement. Her thoughts betrayed her as she wished he’d take it off, revealing whatever was beneath. Damn her. There was a wicked sort of delight she caught in his eyes before his lids dipped down and his breath was hot against her ear as he leaned in to whisper something. He smelled delicious, she caught herself thinking, trying to place the scent but Aelin was far too distracted to think —

His voice rasped deep within her: “I was right. You aren’t very polite, Aelin.”

He was gone before she realized, her body suddenly very cold. She shivered in spite of herself, and turned back in a daze only to find Lysandra gaping. Thank god for her friend, because had it not been for the shock painted across Lys’s face Aelin would have been sure it was a dream. In fact, maybe it still was. She wished a bit it was.

“ _Who the fuck,”_ Lysandra squeaked, “ _was that_?”

Aelin blinked and downed her drink before fumbling for her phone. She unlocked it, unsure what she planned to do. The time wasn’t lost on her, to be sure: 8:11. Large letters, on display. She shook her head, a wry, sharp laugh bursting between lips still parted in shock over the entire scenario.

She was saved the trouble of deciding whether to write anything to Rowan, because a small notification indicated he’d already broken that ice.

_It appears I know you relatively well, considering._

Bastard.

x


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t have to like him to want to lick his abs,” Lysandra had said.
> 
> True. Very true. Aelin didn’t have a reply, and merely raised her drink. “To his abs.”
> 
> xxx

Rowan Whitethorn did not date.

He didn’t say such in the way that many men claimed they avoided relationships, using the line to simply bag a hot lay without the entanglements of expectation. No, he meant that he  _did not date_. A string of bad experiences and a divorce all before the ripe age of twenty-seven had the poor guy keen to avoid women at all costs. He’d focus on his career. There was room for growth there, and most importantly it served a delightful distraction. For now, this was working; he was satisfied.

Of course, this wasn’t a very sustainable lifestyle, as Fenrys was eager to remind him over and over again. The conversation being sparked a few days ago is what landed him in his current predicament.

xxx

“You can’t spend the rest of your life like this,” he’d said after a large swig of whiskey. The words were said with disdain, shock — as if a life spent sexless was the positively worst thing to happen. Rowan hadn’t deigned a response, sipping from his own drink instead, having taken to ignoring his friend. “You may as well just sign up to be a fucking nun, then, Whitethorn.”

That, however, had elicited a reaction. Rowan snorted. “Aside from the fact that nuns are exclusively  _women_ , I don’t think it’s something you just put your name on a list to do.”

Nonetheless, Rowan found himself relinquishing control of his iPhone to Fenrys. The latter was quick to download the app, setting up a very basic profile.

“I can see not wanting to date. Can’t blame you there at all,” he admitted as his fingers ran deftly over the phone’s screen, scrolling and typing. “But you can at least hook up now and again. S’all it’s gotta be.”

Rowan didn’t even crane his neck to see what he was doing. He couldn’t care less. He’d delete the stupid thing come morning. Besides, Fenrys had certainly crossed into drunk territory and there was a good chance he’d not remember any of this. No questions would even need to be answered. So, Rowan humored his best friend and started drawing lines and swirls into the condensation on the bar top.

It was even a bit fun, he had to admit. They’d turned it into a drinking game: every time Rowan said  _no_ , Fenrys had to drink. Frankly, Rowan was uncertain whether the goal of that was to encourage more yesses, or simply because his friend knew he’d be throwing back an awful lot of alcohol. Every time Fenrys swiped right anyway, Rowan had to drink. Really, in the end, it resulted in both men being far drunker than either had meant to that evening. (Wasn’t that always how it went?)

It wasn’t unusual for Fenrys to crash in Rowan’s spare room on nights when the imbibing got out of hand. And when Rowan had been awake, making coffee that morning just before eight — never much of a sleeper — he had every intention to delete the damn app. There were plenty of little notifications on the app itself, rather overwhelming if he were being honest with himself. Were that many women really readily available to just throw themselves in his bed? He snorted, reveling in the superficiality of the implied compliment.

“Anything good?” Fenrys had interrupted, and Rowan scowled. “Don’t you dare fucking delete that. I worked hard to set that up.”

“No you didn’t. You were piss drunk.”

“Exactly. More effort.”

“Why are you awake?”

“Bathroom. Smell of coffee. Fate. Give me the fucking phone.”

“No.”

“Rowan.”

“I’m deleting it.” Or he would be, if only he could figure out how to do that…  _Damned technology._

“Give me.”

“I’m not a dog,” Rowan said, offended.

“ _Give it to me._ ”

“It’s my fucking phone!”

“ _Give me the phone or so help me god_ —” Fenrys growled, lunging towards Rowan with arms outstretched. He managed to knock himself off balance (definitely still drunk, Rowan noted) and in the process of doing so, miraculously, smacked the phone out of his hands.

“This is so painfully juvenile, Fen. You realize that, right?” Rowan said with a resigned sigh. He was too tired for this, and turned his back to the coffee pot. It had yet to finish brewing, but he poured a cup anyway. The smell of burnt coffee as it dripped onto the burner filled his nostrils as a sizzle echoed in the silence.

“Did you even look at any of these profiles?”

“I’m not going to answer a question you know the answer to.”

“Some of them are super hot.”

“How nice for them.”

“No, really. C’mere,” he slurred. When Rowan didn’t obey yet another command fit for a canine, Fenrys cautiously approached. “Look with your eyes, not your hands.”

“You’re a jackass. Have I told you that lately?”

“Yes. But c’mon, you’re saying — you’d not want to at least  _try_  talking to one of these girls?”  _Right. Right. Left. Right_.

“This is an addiction for you, isn’t it? Are you getting some sort of perverse joy by annoying me?” Rowan eyed his phone in his friends hand with a bored stare. His eyes glazed over and he went to grab the Half-N-Half for his coffee. He supposed he should be thankful that Fenrys had yet to try and pose as him, sending out messages.

“I’m not doing this to irritate you. I’m doing it because it’s for the best. You need to get laid. Like — by her. You’re telling me you wouldn’t want to see what that mouth could do?” he asked, holding up the phone to display a photo of a girl with alarmingly blue eyes and striking golden hair and lips tilted in a challenging smirk. Fenrys swiped to reveal more photos: in an elegant gown indicative of some sort of fancy function; at the beach, posing and showing off some very attractive assets; a candid one, where she was laughing and perhaps caught off-guard, the photo slightly blurred.

“No.”

“I would.”

“Great, you can — swipe her on yours, or whatever.”

“It’s a match!”

xxx

He had to admit, it was entertaining enough to rile the girl up. Had she not initiated a conversation and had he not found it terribly easy and enjoyable to provoke her, Rowan would have deleted the app already. And maybe even after one day of it, he might have gotten bored. Still, he found himself somewhat invested now that she was real.

Running into Aelin at a rooftop bar of all places was unexpected, to say the least, and he found himself irritated that she had yet to take the bait. Now that she was a solid person, beyond the confines of a stupid dating app and an iPhone screen, she was much more prominent in his mind. She was taller than he’d imagined she might have been, and her hair was more golden than the photos showed. Perhaps it was the makeup she wore, but those eyes of hers were more vibrant than he’d ever seen before — a pure, clear turquoise with flecks of gold.

Dangerous eyes.

Rowan shook his head, running a hand over his wet hair. The combined motions had tiny droplets of water spraying all around him. A towel tied around his waist, he perched on the edge of his bed. He told himself he wasn’t checking his phone only to see if Aelin had ever responded to his baiting message and by perusing his email before clicking onto Tinder, he had almost managed to convince himself of the lie.

While his message had been sent at (in a strange turn of irony) 8:11PM before even setting foot in the car he’d ordered, hers came through at five past midnight. She must have sent it roughly around the same time he got home after meeting Fen and his brother for drinks.

He smirked. Oh, he’d have fun with this one.

xxx

_I’m polite when I want to be. You just haven’t exactly earned that right._

Aelin’s reply came hours later, per Lysandra’s orders. The girls spent the night at the bar, enjoying free drinks and flirting with the bartender until he was sure to cut them a discount. Admittedly, she ended up drunker than she had meant to. Midway through the night, Lysandra had to take away her phone so she wasn’t tempted to respond too early.

“Make him wait,” she’d said.

For what? Aelin wondered. And moreover, why did she care? He was a prickish, arrogant male with a pretty face and damn good body. Wait — what?  _Damn_.

Seeing him in person only solidified this. Hearing his voice, inhaling his scent, seeing just how tall and broad he was. He was fit as fuck, a phrase Aelin used several times throughout the evening whenever she found a way to bring up the man. She’d finish, each time, with “But he’s a jackass.”

“You don’t have to like him to want to lick his abs,” Lysandra had said.

True. Very true. Aelin didn’t have a reply, and merely raised her drink. “To his abs.”

She should have stopped drinking sometime after she started toasting his glorious body parts, but Aelin didn’t always exercise self-control and thus the drinking continued. And continued. And continued. She would have stayed out longer if Lysandra didn’t have to work the next morning. In fact, she almost did but her friend shoved her into a Lyft and sent her on her way.

Aelin spent the entire fifteen minute car ride carefully composing the text. She had always refused to appear drunk in drunk texts, thereby exercising extreme caution with each delicate stroke of her keyboard on her phone. By the time she was paying for the Lyft, any erroneous letters or punctuation marks were eliminated and she found herself satisfied.

Now, she lay on her bed in nothing but a tank top and underwear with one foot set firmly on the ground in an attempt to steady herself. When had the room started spinning? Aelin supposed the when didn’t matter so much, as long as it would stop. Water would help, perhaps, but that was so far away. Why couldn’t she just magically conjure up a bottle of Evian? So for now, she breathed in with counted breaths and kept a foot planted on her plush carpet and alternated between closing her eyes and opening them to check on the status of the spinning.

When her phone buzzed and intoned with a notification, Aelin shot up. This was a poor decision, as the dizziness went rampant then. She grimaced against it, reaching for her phone from the nightstand.

_And how might one go about earning your respect and politeness, Aelin?_

She texted carefully, slowly. Her fingers betrayed her more than once but in the end she got there, satisfied with the tone and quality of her response and hit send with confidence.

_If you have to ask, you’ll never know._

_Sure. Late night_?

_What’s it to you?_

_It’s called a “conversation,” Aelin. You may have heard of them. It often consists of two or more parties engaging in a back-and-forth, sometimes overlapping, exchange of words and statements._

She blinked several times, soaking up the blatant sarcasm. Aelin took a moment to reposition herself to the floor, knees bent before her with feet planted firmly on her carpet. She dug her painted toes into the soft fibers, a luxurious feeling. There was something about being sunk to the ground that helped to clear her head, the spinning much less down here. Only now, her head spun for a different reason.

_I thought this was an app for hook-ups._

_Is that an invitation?_

She scowled.  _No_.

_Great, then back to the conversation bit we go._

_Why?_ She was too drunk for word games, her brows seemingly permanently knitted together. Her filter was gone, the words flying without thought from her fingers.  _You’re a jackass._

_I thought I could eventually trap you into apologizing for bumping into me today._

_Only if you admit you were stalking me._

_That would be a lie. I’m asking for a human courtesy from you, and you’re requesting a fallacy from me. That’s not fair at all, Aelin._

_Stop saying my name._

_Typing._

God, he was infuriating! She had half a mind to throw her phone across the room and go to bed. At least her head had calmed down. The room was settled in one spot, no longer turning circles around her. Perhaps utter annoyance was the perfect cure for drunkenness. With a small grunt of frustration, Aelin replied.

_Semantics._

_Does it make you uncomfortable?_

_If I say yes, will you stop?_

_No._

_You’re a jackass._

_At least I’m not the one flinging limbs at near-strangers._

_You poor, poor baby. Did it hurt? Have I left a bruise? Perhaps you can find someone to kiss it all better._ She rolled her eyes, and wished she could intone within a text.

_Are you offering?_

Aelin let out a loud snort, her eyes rolling even further. They’d get stuck like that if she spent much longer talking to Rowan, she was sure. He was taunting her, she knew. If there was anything she’d learned in the limited communication he had engaged in with her, it was that he took perverse pleasure out of provoking her. Certainly, half the things he said were likely to get a reaction out of her.

Her fingers hovered over the keys, typing out a quick “No.” However, she paused. Her thumb lingered by the send button, her brain sending out signals to hit the key. Do it. Send. Shut it down, Aelin. But her fingers moved of their own accord, as if driven by her subconscious, by the drunken devil on her shoulder that had her deleting the original message.

_You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?_

_Immensely, I’m sure._

She knew she’d loathe herself for this all come morning. Sober Aelin would rise from bed, make coffee, and look at these messages with a crinkle in her nose and a flush on her cheek. She couldn’t be sure if she’d ever had much of a grasp on the upper hand, but whatever hold she did maintain was getting looser and looser. The Aelin sat on her floor past midnight with drink still swimming in her head, however, found a smirk settling on her lips.

_Where’s it hurt, Rowan?_

_My stomach._

Your abs, you mean. Her smirk widened. Perhaps she wasn’t so off base toasting to his abs, earlier.

_You’d probably have to take off your shirt if I’m going to kiss it better, then._

_I’m in a towel. How convenient._

She blinked, that floaty feeling in her head returning. Why was he sitting around in a towel, messaging her? — And why did she strangely enjoy that mental image? Aelin cleared her throat, shaking it from her mind and returning to the task at hand.

_Why are you in a towel?_

_Have you ever heard of a shower, Aelin?_

Well, now she was just picturing him damp from a shower. Did his hair get a darker shade, almost silvery, when wet? She wondered about the path the beads of water took along the planes of his chest. Aelin clicked back to his profile, eyeing the photos there again and stopping at the one where he was shirtless and engaged in sport. She swallowed hard.

He’s a jackass, she reminded herself. An absolute bastard.

Lysandra’s words rolled in her mind, though. “You don’t have to like him to want to lick his abs.” Was she a witch or something, predicting the future? She wasn’t sure whether to curse or thank her friend; Aelin supposed the answer might come to her later.

I don’t like him, she reminded herself as she typed out her next message and hit send.

_Do you want to come over?_

xxx


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You put words in my head. You wheedled them in there! I did not ask for a dating app. I did not ask to have Rowan, 27, of Tinder on my mind. I did not ask to run into him. I did not ask to be envisioning licking his abs. I did not ask for him to come over. Except, oh wait! I did. I DID, LYSANDRA. And it’s your fault."
> 
> xxx

_Do you want to come over?_

_In my towel?_ He shot back, knowing full well it was just to spark a reaction from her. He’d play into a bit of banter for a while longer as he weighed his options.

As much as Rowan hated to admit it, he felt a strange sort of fascination with her. Perverse, maybe. He wanted to see how much rise he could get out of her, keen to watch those vibrant eyes flicker dangerous and dark at him. He managed only a glimpse at the bar, but her soulful spark was there in their brief encounter. He knew that with someone like Aelin it was difficult to dampen that fiery instinct, its effects always lurking. He found himself wanting to play with that, if only to get burned himself.

 _Definitely_  perverse, he confirmed in his thoughts.

She seemed the sort to know the effect she had on men. That outfit she wore wasn’t on accident. He supposed very little about Aelin was accidental in any respect. He liked that about her.

Wait,  _no_. Rowan scolded himself silently, rolling his eyes. Attraction was one thing, and quite out of his power. She was an attractive woman and confident in such, that much was clear. Appreciating her attraction did not equate to  _liking_. He’d be sure to filter his thoughts better, keeping ones such as that at bay.

 _I don’t like you_. Her response set a frown on his features — could she read his mind or something?

 _But you want me to come over?_ he quipped.  _That seems rather masochistic._

_I don’t have to like you to want to lick your abs._

The bark of laughter came over him before he could stop it, unable to keep a slight flush heating his neck and cheeks. About that confidence he was just before commending as an attractive quality … it now posed to unravel him, ever so slightly. (Or perhaps not as slight as he hoped, if he were being honest.) He was usually in search of the upper hand, and by generally abiding by a No Women rule at the moment it was pretty solidly maintained. Still, now —

He shook his head, knowing she was going to be one to contend with, and tucked away a mental note to curse Fenrys next time he saw him.

Or thank him, perhaps.

It was still to be seen which.

xxx

The words were out and sent before she could stop them — curse her booze-addled brain. Aelin wasn’t sure if she was overreacting or if he was indeed taking longer to answer than usual. On second thought, perhaps she ought to start analyzing his lack of a quick, immediate  _yes_ after she’d asked him to come over. Oh, well. It was too late now to take any of it back. Especially after the abs comment. Damnit, Lysandra.

_Objectifying me, are you?_

_It does appear so. Offended?_

_No. I’m not nearly so delicately wired as you are. It takes much more to ruffle my feathers, Aelin. The concern is touching, though._

_Don’t confuse my hope for concern._

_Evil woman._

_With an eviler tongue._

_“_ Oh, come  _on_!” she exclaimed aloud to no one, setting her phone on her nightstand a bit too forcefully. She stood up, tugging down her tank top over her bottom as she paced her room with long-legged strides. “I’ve been possessed,” she murmured to the empty room. “Absolutely possessed.”

Her cheeks flushed red and she bounced back to her phone. She fumbled and quickly unlocked the phone, tapping the home button furiously until she was decidedly  _away_  from Tinder. She was on a mission. She had to shout at someone. Blame someone.

A sleeping Lysandra wasn’t likely to pick up the phone, so after several rings it went straight to voicemail — just what she had been hoping.

“Oh,  _hello friend,_ ” she crooned. “I will indeed leave a message, and you’re going to listen to the whole damn thing. Maybe you should put it on speaker for full effect, phone blasting through your fancy little speakers. Ready? I’m going to fucking kill you, do you know that? You’re dead. This is all your fault, Lysandra Ennar.” Aelin was back to pacing, the phone not even up to her ear as she shouted into the receiver. “You put words in my head. You wheedled them in there! I did not  _ask_  for a dating app. I did not  _ask_  to have Rowan, 27, of Tinder  _on my mind_. I did not  _ask_  to run into him. I did not  _ask_  to be envisioning licking his abs. I did not  _ask_  for him to come over. Except, oh wait!  _I did. I DID, LYSANDRA._ And it’s your fault. You’ve possessed me. I’m possessed. I’m not me — another way of saying  _I AM_ POSSESSED. Here we are. So thank you. Or fuck you. I haven’t decided yet. I’ll — call you tomorrow. Bye _ee_.” She was about to hang up and toss her phone back on the bed, but she added quickly in an a rushed voice, “I hope you wake up with a horrible hangover.”

She took a deep huff of a breath, falling back onto her bed with the phone nestled to her chest.

Was she truly doing this? Inviting him over? She didn’t even know the guy. He could be sadistic, or a murderer. Well, she could hold her own. Aelin had a nice set of knives in the kitchen and an even nicer selection of stiletto heels in her closet. Either would do for a weapon, should the situation arise.

 _So you’re inviting me over for a satanic ritual?_ he had sent back in response.

_Are you coming or not?_

_Are you drunk?_

_Why does the state of my sobriety matter?_

_Are you?_

_No._

Yes I am, she thought.

Barely. Maybe a little, she combatted in her mind. So, she amended with an added message:  _Not wasted, at least. Do you always put up this much fight when an attractive girl invites you over at night?_

_Yes._

There was a pause, and she found herself waiting for more. It wasn’t even a response she felt she could offer much in return. There was no verbal sparring, no twisted words for her to battle with. Just a simple answer to a simple question. Her brows furrowed while her stomach tightened as rejection washed over her.

 _What’s your address_?

Aelin blinked down at the words, shaking her head. Strands of blond fell out of her loose braid when she did so, the pieces framing her face. They tickled her cheeks and she made to tuck them behind her ears. She busied herself with the hem of her tank top, rolling and unfurling it between thumb and forefinger. With her lower lip firm between her teeth and brows furrowed, she looked the picture of confusion.

 _But what’s there to be confused about?_ , she thought. After all the fuss Rowan had posed after her initial invitation, Aelin supposed she was anticipating a negative response. Was this actually happening? Well — it had to be. If he was calling her on a bluff, then she’d certainly not give him the satisfaction of backing down.

With that in mind, Aelin typed out her address and waited.

xxx

“I’m not here to fuck you.”

They were the first words out of Rowan’s mouth once she answered the door. His eyes raked briefly over her and the only indication of any effect on him was a slight jump in his jaw, the hard line twitching with clenched teeth. In the twenty minutes it took him to get to her apartment, Aelin went through a frantic dressing-and-undressing process in an attempt to find the best way to present herself. Ultimately, she wound up in precisely the same simple black silk camisole and matching underpants that she’d been in to start. The only difference now was her golden hair being efficiently mussed up from pulling shirts on and off and being tugged out of her braid.

On the bright side, adrenaline proved to be quite sobering. (Or perhaps that was a negative.)

“No?” She shifted her weight to one hip, arms crossing across her chest.

“No.”

“Care to explain why you’re here at one in the morning, then?” Aelin snorted, stepping aside to allow the tall man into her apartment without so much as a wave of her arm.

He took advantage of the moment, using long strides to make his way inside. Her eyes lingered on him as he walked. Rowan was far more dressed than she, something to be expected considering he had to commute to her apartment. He was clad in casual wear: a lightweight sweater brushing along his collarbones, taut across his chest and dark wash jeans that showed off his bum in a way that had Aelin’s eyes lingering. There was an effortlessness to his appearance she found distinctly attractive, admittedly. It frustrated her. Only once she’d locked the door behind her did she step back into his line of vision.

“I’m proving a point.”

“That you can keep your dick in your pants?” she asked, eyes dipping down for a moment. When she found his face again she smirked at the slight flush that crept along his neck.

“That I’m over my ex,” he said easily, running a hand through his hair as if to shake himself of any embarrassment inspired by her words.

Aelin blinked, lifting her chin to him. She sucked down on her lower lip, a subconscious habit that wasn’t even meant to entice — though she was aware of his eyes observing the action. She didn’t know him well enough to pick up on the sorts of things he found attractive, but Aelin supposed there were some things blanketed over all men as a universal turn-on. Being half-clothed and drawing attention to her lips, she suspected, was a winning combination.

“Aren’t you supposed to do that  _by_  hooking up with someone else?”

“No. Fen only has to think I did. The easiest lies are the one that have some truth, you see, and I hate flat-out lying. It gets tricky.” He paused, leaning his broad back against the nearest wall. “Now I can say I came over, and he can deduce the rest.”

“And when he asks for details?” Aelin asked, settling into the armchair a few feet over from him. She draped her long, bare legs over the arm of the seat, crossed at the ankles. She wondered whether her sprawling pose would unsettle him.

With the way he was determined not to look at her for too long, she felt like she was on her way to achieving her goal.

Rowan was unconcerned when he answered, shrugging his shoulders. “I never give them. Avoiding the topic only feeds the normalcy.”

“Well, this is boring,” Aelin said with a small sigh after letting his words sit in silence a moment. She stretched her arms over her head, knees propped over one arm of the chair while her neck cradled against the other. Golden blond hair cascaded down the upholstered side, though the locks weren’t long enough graze the floor. Her tank top rode up to reveal a sliver of skin as her body stretched out with the languid, graceful action. “I’d have never invited you over if you were just going to brood against a wall,” she elaborated finally while she arched her back in attempt to touch her fingers to the ground.

“Frankly? I was trying to catch you in a bluff, but when you didn’t bite I figured I ought to benefit from it somehow.”

A genuine laugh passed her lips and she returned to a sitting position, no longer splayed over the length of her chair but knees still bent over the arm. She crossed and uncrossed her ankles before dangling her legs, heels bouncing back and forth against the side of the armchair to create a dull, thumping noise. The rhythm matched her steady heartbeat.

Booze made her particularly restless and sitting still proved to be difficult.

“You clearly don’t know me very well at all. I don’t bluff.”

“No, I imagine you’re quite reckless.”

“ _Thoughtfully_  reckless, thank you very much.”

He shot her a look, deep green eyes meeting hers. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Aelin shrugged, waving a hand dismissively.  _This_  didn’t make sense, she thought with some annoyance. Frustration burned within her mind as she attempted with little success to figure out what he was to gain from any of this. Sure, he provided the excuse that being here was a means to pacify his friend, attempting to make a convincing argument that he was over his ex. Aelin didn’t buy it entirely, though. It didn’t take long for her to realize he liked playing games as much as she did. One scroll through their texting conversation proved that. There was something deeper, but she certainly wasn’t about to simply ask for it.

Games were fun, after all.

“I don’t bite,” Aelin said finally. The distance was bugging her.

“I’m not sure I believe that.”

She grinned, the appearance a bit goofy. “That might be the smartest thing you’ve said all day. Night. Whatever.”

“Why’d you tell me to come over?” he asked, his body angled towards her now. His voice was laced with genuine curiosity, his brows arching upwards.

There still lay several empty feet between them, but at least he was no longer slouched against that damn wall. Without it, he stood tall. She wouldn’t consider herself short but she felt dwarfed with him in the room. Aelin wasn’t about to mention that, however; she was unwilling to feed his ego when he’d done nothing to deserve it.

She sat up fully, pulling her knees around to face him more fully. She set one foot on the ground, her other leg tucked beneath her. She wriggled her toes into the carpet, relishing the feeling of plush fibers against her skin.

Her apartment wasn’t cheap, by any means, and luxury was found in all corners of the space. It was the perfect mix of modern and elegant, full of personal touches and artworks and gorgeous knick-knacks she’d collected throughout her travels over the years. The chandelier was one of her newest pieces, installed only three weeks earlier. The sleek crystal droplets set against matte black hardware created a warm amber glow in her room, accenting nicely the cool grey walls of her living room. It was sophisticated but not stuffy, just how she liked it.

Her eyes were set on said lighting fixture as she said, “Do you want a drink?”

“Answering a question with a question is a very distinct form of avoidance.”

“No,” Aelin disagreed firmly, standing then. While the dizziness from earlier had long passed, her limbs still felt heavy with the night’s alcohol. Her legs were long and bare, her figure well on display in the black silk tank and underwear. “I’m just being a good hostess.”

“You can put on clothes, you know,” Rowan said with a slight cough once she’d walked past him en route to the kitchen.

Aelin tossed her hair over her shoulder, looking back at him with a smirk that settled in her eyes as much as her lips. She dragged her gaze over him with the sole attention of rattling his sturdy demeanor. He merely shifted taller, eyes firmly holding her face. Still, the faint heat flushing his neck betrayed his calm.

“I’m in clothes. You don’t like my outfit?” She pushed out her bottom lip in feigned sadness.

“Just — get me a drink.”

“ _So bossy_ ,” she cooed, bouncing into the kitchen.

xxx

Two drinks in, he was actually  _slouching_.

Bum on the ground, back against the wall, knees drawn up, shoulders hunched — slouching. Aelin had triumphantly commented on it three times already, and each time Rowan straightened his spine in defiance. It was never long before he was back to his completely unthreatening, non-hovering position.

Eventually he stopped caring.

She was back in her chair, sprawled and comfortable and completely unfazed with the way her shirt rode up or how her cheeks turned red from the alcohol or the ticking away of the hours.

Whatever she was expecting when she invited him over, this certainly wasn’t it.

“Why are  _you_  on Tinder?” he asked, carrying on their conversation in which she had  pestered for details on his involvement in the app. She had remained mainly impassive during his brief retelling, though she thought it amusing in an ironic sense that she, too, had a nosy friend.

“Same as you.”

“You also had a marriage fall apart?” he quipped, a brow raised as he raised his amber-filled glass in mock salute.

“Wh— No, smartass,” she said lazily, brushing over his comment.  _Marriage_? “I have a friend who can’t keep her nose in her own business. You met her. Kind of. She was at the bar earlier.”  _God_ , she thought,  _was that really only tonight_? She scanned her surroundings, taking in the scene which had been set. Her eyes narrowed of their own accord as she remembered she was meant to be loathing him, this man with the games and the irritating technicalities of speech and syntax.

He seemed softer with his guard let down slightly.

Aelin shook her head of the thoughts with a sip from her glass. She opted for a glass of whiskey, matching Rowan’s preferred drink. She knew it wasn’t the best choice to drink after having fruity cocktails at the bar with Lysandra, but her tongue craved the heat and spice, rules of drinking be damned.

“I don’t remember,” he shrugged.

“Well, she was with me at the bar. Lys was. And she’s determined that I, too, must wipe the sorrows of a horrifically ended relationship before I grow old and wrinkled and a recluse,” Aelin finished with a overdramatic flair, her palm set against her forehead. Rowan said nothing, and she dropped her hand, swirling her drink in the glass. Her nose crinkled in the silence. “It’s hard to just move on,” she said quietly with an air of sincerity that even took herself aback. “I have, anyway. I saw someone else, kind of, for a bit. Not that it’s — anyway.”

“I finalized a divorce six months ago.” The way Rowan said it, quietly and half-mumbled, it almost sounded as if it was a piece of truth in reluctant thanks for her own.

“Drink!” she announced after a decidedly awkward moment, as if they were playing a drinking game.

“Why?” he questioned, confusion written on his face.

Aelin shrugged. “Dunno. Seemed the better thing to do rather than talk about exes.” She rose quickly to her feet, swaying slightly. “Let’s drink to that!”

“To  _what_?” he said. “Drink to drinking? You’re goddamn crazy. And you’re —  _fucking hell, sit down,”_ Rowan cursed, jumping to his feet.

Aelin happily ignored him, crawling onto the chair previously occupied by her butt. There was enthusiasm in her movements, perhaps a bit too much. She wobbled precariously as she tried to stabilize herself on the cushion. With a drink in hand and the alcohol having gone directly to her head, this did not prove to be an easy feat. A fit of giggles passed her lips as she shot out her arm to cheers the room, whiskey in hand. It sloshed over the edge with the impetus of her movement. With a squeal, she twisted her body in a contorted attempt to keep the alcohol for getting on the expensive armchair. Aelin’s normal grace, however, had gone to bed hours ago as her booze-addled brain took over. And so it went that, in the process of attempting to save her precious furniture, she completely lost her balance and started tumbling towards the floor.

Or she would have, had Rowan’s reflexes been less than what they were.

He was quick to reach out an arm, standing at the chair in the knick of time. He steadied her before she could fall from the chair, his body near hers and hands heavy on her hips, fingertips clutching her firmly. Aelin’s arm shot out around his shoulders the second he approached, the remains of her whiskey now coating his back. Her other palm rest against his hard chest as she caught her breath to the situation.

From this close, she couldn’t help but study his face. His features were sharp and hardened, all square and angular where it counted. But there was a softness in his eyes all the same — or perhaps the alcohol had really fucked her up. Forest green framed with thick, dark lashes met her own in turn and she felt her stomach twist.

 _Stop that_ , she commanded weakly.

 _And that_ , she added as her heart thrummed wildly against her chest while his hands skimmed her sides slightly, barely moving from her hips. She might not have detected the movement had his calloused palm not caught the bare skin revealed from her askew tank top.

“I spilled my drink.”

“I noticed,” he said, though if he was fazed by it he didn’t let it show through his voice.

“You should get cleaned up.”

She watched his jaw tighten. “I’m fine.”

“You smell like a distillery.”

“I’m fine, Aelin.”

He pulled his hands from her hips, leaving the skin cool and feeling strangely vulnerable without the heat of his touch. She wasn’t without for long, however, as he coaxed her back to sitting. In the process, her own contact with his body was lost. Once she was situated and no longer in danger of falling, Rowan pulled her now-empty glass from her hand. He set it on the coffee table nearby, where his already resided. She watched him with a scowl.

“I”m trying to be  _polite_.”

“Then listen to your houseguests when they tell you they’re  _fine_.”

“Even if they smell like shit and their sweater’s going to get all sticky and I’m just trying to help because I know I’m right?”

Rowan leveled a glare at her before running a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh. “You’re so goddamn annoying, do you know that?”

“I like to think of it as strong-willed and attractive, but sure.”

“Cocky brat, more like.” She grinned widely, so he added: “That wasn’t a compliment.”

“For what it’s worth, sorry for dumping a drink on you.”

“A waste of perfectly good whiskey,” Rowan concluded, rolling his shoulders back in discomfort as the liquid settled sticky-dry between skin and fabric. “How about this,” he started, his eyes scanning her. She leaned back on her haunches, not quite sitting in the chair but perching more like. There was a tired, drunken glaze to her eyes and she blinked several times to try and clear it. “You’ve got to get some sleep.”

She tilted her head with a raised, defiant chin. “You’re not my dad.”

“No,” he said levelly, “I’m not.”

“Good thing,” she said in a low voice, pulling her lower lip between her teeth with a smirk and flick of her lashes.

His gaze faltered, and he gave a slight shake of his head. “Aelin.”

“Yes?”

“Bed.”

She made no moves, so his hand shot out with an impatient groan, closing the distance between them. Aelin eyed his extended palm with mild skepticism, before slipping her fingers slowly into his and offering a coy grin. He diverted his eyes from hers, and she couldn’t help but let out a breathy chuckle. She’d never have suspected him to be so easily rattled. It only added to her confidence, wondering how far she could push him. The games called to her, a siren’s song.  _Maybe Tinder wasn’t so bad after all,_ she mused.

With her hand in his, Rowan lead her to her room. He palmed the wall by the door until he discovered the light switch, putting on display a smaller but just as elegant chandelier, sister to the one in her living room. She eyed it fondly before setting her hot gaze on the man leading her to her bed.

“Go,” he said, distracting her from her long stares which had settled on his bum. He dropped her hand and set his arms crossed taut over his chest, nodding towards her bed.

“What,  _alone_?” She gasped in feigned shock.

“Aelin.”

“ _Rowan_ ,” she teased back, the name sounding foreign on her tongue as she voiced it for the first time. His eyes studied her in a way that had her wondering if he realized the same thing.

“You’re drunk. You nearly face planted your way to the floor. And while that’s a damn comfy carpet, I’ll give you that, I don’t think you need to test the limits with any more unplanned falls. Get in bed. Sleep it off.” She thought that was all, and she opened her mouth to protest but was cut off before she could even begin. “ _You owe me_ ,” he said, voice low and deep and firm with decisiveness.

Rowan turned to the door and he left, leaving her reeling.

xxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> author’s note ; hi friends thanks again for all the love and appreciation and excitement you share with me on this journey! i’m having SO much fun writing this!!!! honestly it’s just such a good time for me and a really wonderful writing exercise. this is my longest chapter yet, and hopefully where the rest of them will sit now that i’ve garnered interest and we’re getting more into Plot Things -- because i’ve come up a bit with some plot ideas!!! so i hope you enjoy the banter and such in this chapter!!! all likes, comments, kudos, love, etc are much MUCH appreciated you babes thank you times a million! xo find me on tumblr @ rosecailoway.tumblr.com for more content!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought you hated him.”
> 
> “He’s annoying and stubborn and kind of a dick, yeah.”
> 
> “So why do you care so much?”
> 
> “Do you like being rejected?”

“What does that even mean?” Lysandra asked.

Two days had passed and Aelin was eager to discover insight into her situation. A situation made even more frustrating considering that two days had passed and not a single point of contact had been made. It was embarrassing how much she’d begun checking Tinder. At a particularly desperate time, she even found herself deleting the app and re-downloading it — just in case it had glitched and messages weren’t getting to her. But still, nothing. She groaned, tossing her hands up in a fit of despair.

“You’re supposed to tell  _me_.”

“ _You owe me?_  You owe me. He said that? What on Earth do you owe him?”

Aelin shrugged, picking at her chocolate hazelnut croissant. The sun shone high in the sky, countering the springtime chill and creating an overall nice day. It did not match her mood. Not even the pastry could improve her irritation.

“Couldn’t tell you. Dry cleaning for his sweater, maybe?”

Lysandra sat back and sipped at her green juice. “Oh. Hm,” she mused with a thoughtful hum. “Dry cleaning.”

“Oh my god,” she gasped, realization dawning on her. “I owe him for the fucking dry cleaning bill.”

The brunette leveled her friend with a dismal stare. “Must be a damn nice sweater.”

_It was_ , Aelin thought with a sigh. But she didn’t tell Lysandra that. Rather, she pointed an accusatory finger at the girl. A flake of croissant flung between them on the table. “ _This_  is all your fault.”

“ _My fault_?”

“Yes! Your fault.”

Lysandra huffed. “You’re being absurd, Aelin. It isn’t my fault. We left the bar at a reasonable, respectable time. How was I to know you’d go home, get sloshed, invited a big, burly man over, spill whisky on his apparently very nice sweater, and then  _owe him a dry cleaning bill_?”

“I wouldn’t ever have been on this stupid app if it wasn’t for you, you know.”

Lysandra sat silent for several moments, the only sound between the two women being that of green juice sloshing inside a plastic cup. Aelin glared daggers across the table, as if that would absolve her of the embarrassment that sat deep in the pit of her stomach.

“You should call the cops.”

“Now who’s being absurd,” Aelin said with an exaggerated roll of the eyes.

“No, really!” Lys insisted. “What if it was, like, a threat or something. Did he sound threatening?”

Aelin blinked and considered for a moment. “No. He sounded dead sexy.” A pointed, decisive nod.

“You were drunk, though.”

“I don’t think drunk me confuses threatening for sexy, but thank you for having zero faith in me.”

“It’s been a while for you, so you might just be reading signs wrong.”

Annoyed, Aelin pulled apart her croissant with too much fervor. She liked foods that could be torn apart, something to take her frustrations out on all the while being satisfied. Her destruction was a bit too hasty, however, and a piece went flying, landing on the ground. They both watched as an oversized pigeon immediately went for it, fiendish.

“No need to take it out on the pastry, Aelin. What did the croissant ever do to you?”

“I’m not all shriveled up and hopeless, you know. Being on my own is a choice.  _Besides_ ,” she pressed forward with intent to keep Lysandra quiet as she opened her mouth, “I slept with Chaol. I told you that.”

“ _That_  doesn’t count _.”_

_“_ How the hell doesn’t it?”

“The point is, I have your best interest at heart! Really I do. I thought the Tinder thing would be good for you.”

Aelin sighed, resting her chin in her palm. “That’s probably why he hasn’t contacted me, isn’t it? He’s just waiting for his sweater to get back from the cleaners, then he’ll Venmo me for the cost.”

“I thought you hated him.”

“He’s annoying and stubborn and kind of a dick, yeah.”

“So why do you care so much?”

She sat back again, resting her back against the cool metal of the chair. She opened her mouth to answer, but took another moment to consider. She did care, didn’t she? Whether she wanted to admit it or not. It all felt like a massive rejection. It was human nature to feel so abject after being turned down in several ways. That wasn’t odd, nor did it indicate  _caring_  so much as a normal human emotion. Her frustration was warranted, she reasoned. She said as much, looking to Lysandra with a steady glare.

“Do  _you_  like being rejected?”

Her friend simply smirked, as if she knew something Aelin didn’t. “No,” she said lightly. “I suppose I don’t.”

xxx

_I need to talk to you_.

She glared at the words, indignant, trying her best to ignore the drop in her stomach that came unwarranted when her phone buzzed with a Tinder notification. She’d hoped for something a bit flashier, perhaps throwing back to the banter that seemed to come naturally between them. But that was before — 

Before what?

Aelin slipped her phone into her purse, popping in her earbuds as she made her way from work. As the manager of a bookstore cafe — an in-between job, she insisted, though it had been in-between for the better part of three years with no intent to actually leave. The inheritance she’d come into from her parents’ deaths kept her living a cushy lifestyle and at twenty-four she found herself still uncertain what  _path_  and  _career_  (words that were leaden on her tongue) she quite wanted to achieve.

She sipped carefully at her coffee (her regular: creme, sugar, and a shot of hazelnut syrup) as she skipped song after song, trying to busy her mind and ignore the thumping in her chest as she wondered what, exactly, Rowan had to talk to her about. The snipped sounds of songs filled her head as she resolved to refuse a reply until she’d gotten home. She waited days to hear from him, and he deserved to wait just as long.

She knew her determination to avoid answering was far from strong enough, confirmed further by the fact that the second she crossed onto her street, Aelin had her phone in hand and furiously typed one of the many responses that had come to mind.

_Don’t you know that’s the worst thing to text_?

_What?_

_No one wants to hear ‘I need to talk to you.’_

_It’s not a death sentence. I was just being straightforward._

She rolled her eyes at this, fumbling for her keys. It was a precarious situation, balancing coffee and phone in one hand while she inserted the key into the lock, black Michael Kors bag threatening to slip down her shoulder in the process. She gave a triumphant noise of success when the task of getting into her apartment without spilling coffee or dropping her iPhone was completed.

Aelin had barely shut the door and dropped her bag to the ground, coffee abandoned on a nearby table, before she was swiftly pecking out her reply.

_You had several days of times you could have talked to me. Why now?_ She furrowed her brows. She knew why, of course. His damn sweater.

_I didn’t realize you were waiting with bated breath to hear from me._

“Cocky bastard,” she mumbled, kicking off her heels. He wasn’t all wrong, of course. She was waiting to hear from him, despite how much she hated the truth in the statement.

_There was no bated breath. Anyway, just get to the point. How much do I owe you?_

_What?_

_That’s why you have to talk to me, I’m guessing?? Your sweater? I ruined it._

Like a god damn a drunken mess, which is probably why he’d avoided talking to her for days. She couldn’t blame him, though she’d never tell him that. The entire scenario was something that burned her cheeks to recall. What on earth had she been thinking even inviting him over in the first place?

Oh yes, his abs. That’s all that she was thinking of.

“Damn you horny-Aelin,” she muttered, sighing as she received Rowan’s next message.

_… Seriously, Aelin?_

She found herself issuing that exact same admonishment an awful lot lately.  _Seriously, Aelin_  indeed. And no matter how on-the-nose the sentiment may have been, she was certainly not about to agree.

_Don’t ‘…’ me like I”m crazy. When you left the other night, you said I owe you. Now you need to talk to me, which sounds very pressing and businesslike. My Venmo’s aagalathynius. Just charge me there._

_Aelin, stop. You’re right about the owing me thing. But I didn’t mean for my sweater. I couldn’t care less about the thing. It’s been sitting in a heap at the bottom of my hamper. Did you really think I was about to ask you for the $5 for a dry cleaned sweater? More importantly, do you really think I’m taking the time to dry clean my god damn sweaters? I have so many questions._

_You’re a jackass._ The statement warranted repeating, she had clearly decided.

_So you’ve said. You do owe me, though._

It remained to be seen, however, whether this was a good or a bad thing. Aelin frowned at her phone, leaning against the edge of the table. She forced herself to set down her phone, steepling her fingers against her lips in an effort to remain calm and collected. What could she possibly owe him? Perhaps Lysandra had been onto something and she ought to have set the police on him.

There was only one way to find out, she thought wryly, reaching once again for her phone after its brief hiatus from her clutches. Her fingers glided smoothly across the glass screen, slow and steady as she proffered the words that were want to seal her fate.

_To what end?_

She stared expectantly at her screen, waiting a response with (much to her chagrin) bated breath

xxx

Rowan rubbed a rough palm over his face, a small and frustrated growl passing his lips. He sat at his desk, still at work though done for the day. He often found himself sitting back in the offices beyond working hours. Sometimes, being surrounded by professionals in stuffy suits seemed nearly enough to deter him from the job he set out to do. He may have stumbled into law due to familial obligation, but he  _did_  enjoy the work. He was good at it.

It almost made dealing with his aunt worth it.

Aunt Maeve was concerned with three things: winning, reputation, and appearances. The order changed on a daily basis, but the priorities never made way for other things. Even her upcoming marriage was low on the list of daily thoughts save for the fact that the wedding was set to make headlines by being a spectacle of an event. The event planner took care of the entire thing — Maeve’s only involvement was a flourished signature as she signed checks as the budget grew and grew and grew. And while she claimed she loved the man she was about to marry, Rowan had a feeling the union was more to further social status than anything else.

Not that it bothered him. To each their own. True love was likely a hoax and all that. What he  _did_  care about, however, was the wedding’s impending date and his lack of, well, exactly that: a date.

Maeve sneered at his entire relationship with Lyria. Beginning, middle, and end. She scowled at his divorce, supposing he ought to have suffered through it and figured it out. But what she found most inappropriate and took as some kind of personal offense was the fact that Rowan was content to show up without a date to her wedding.

He would have done, too. Might still do so.

But he had a plan.

A crazy one, to be sure. But a plan nonetheless.

And so Rowan gave himself one last chance to back out, took a deep breath, and sent his next message to Aelin (last name possibly Galathynius, if her Venmo was any indication.)

_Can we meet for coffee?_

He supposed if he was planning on asking a near-stranger to be his date to a family wedding, he ought to do so in person. And sober.

_Coffee_?

_Do you not drink coffee, Aelin_? Did she have to question absolutely everything he said? She was infuriating. But perhaps the closest he had to finding a date. And, if she could annoy his Aunt Maeve as much as she annoyed  _him_ , then all the better. It was a petty indulgence of a thought, certainly, but Rowan shrugged it off.

_I’m drinking coffee right now_.

_Your point?_

_Why should I buy another coffee when I’ve got a perfectly good hazelnut coffee in my hand?_

Apparently yes, she  _did_  have to question every word he posed. Rowan wondered whether this was just her nature of it was a habit exclusive to him. It could be a side-effect of being a pretty girl, possibly spoiled. He didn’t know much about her save for her address, appearance, and age so the call was tough to make. Admittedly, he wanted to know. Who  _was_  this girl?

_I’ll buy your damn coffee then._ He rolled his eyes, not bothering to mention he intended on picking up her tab regardless. Surely she had some kind of better view of him — although Aelin had seemed to convince herself that she owed him a dry cleaning bill. He snorted in a dry chuckle, rubbing his temples with a heavy sigh.

_I think we’re doing this Tinder thing wrong_.

He furrowed his brows into a frown, blinking at his phone. What was that supposed to mean? They’d made it quite clear to one another, he thought, that neither elected to be a part of this rather hellish social media-dating app world. Perhaps Aelin had decided she sought a quick-and-dirty, no-strings-attached hook-up. Were that the case, Rowan was about to regret this entire conversation he was planning  — the idea of which he already felt to be foolish on many levels.

_I don’t think there are rules, Aelin._

_Fine. Coffee. Where?_ Her response took a moment to come through, but he was pleased with its content all the same.

_Bluestone on 9th._

_I’ll be there in twenty._

xxx

Forty minutes late by design, she was not surprised to see that Rowan was already there upon her arrival.

He sat with his phone in hand, a frown marking the lines of his face. Aelin took a moment to study him, the way his features fell into place when no one was watching. He seemed to be texting furiously and, though she couldn’t quite tell why, he seemed sad. Until, of course, he forcefully set his phone down and leaned back in his chair. He ran a hand through white-blond locks, his fingertips pressing into the base of his neck. He rolled his shoulders and turned his head to the side, catching sight of Aelin in doing so.

Rowan straightened.

Aelin sauntered.

Before leaving her apartment, she took time to change and fix her appearance. Work clothes of a casual nature were traded for an A-line dress that fell mid-thigh and showed off her lithe legs in combination with the stiletto ankle boots. All black save for the red trim lining the Peter Pan collar of her dress, she looked dressed to kill. And perhaps she was. The sharp clack of her heels on tile with each step made her feel powerful, a welcome change from the sinking sense of shame that she’d otherwise housed all week.

She ran her fingers through her loose blond waves and turned her berry lips into a smirk before sitting.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, flicking her locks over her shoulder then and making a show of crossing her legs.

“Are you?”

Her lips curled further into a smile near genuine. “No.”

“Brat.”

The lukewarm insult rolled off her back and she leaned forward somewhat across the small, round table. She set her chin into her palm, elbow resting on the glass surface. “I’m a lady. You can’t expect me to be ready at your beck-and-call.”

“I wasn’t.” Rowan shrugged, leaning back in his chair as if to counter her move and maintain the space between them. “You’re the one who gave a timeframe that surely you knew was inaccurate.”

“Now you know better,” she offered.

“Coffee?” he asked, switching gears.

“Medium mocha with an extra shot of espresso and a pump of hazelnut.” She peered over his shoulder at the counter briefly, nodding once to herself before adding, “And a chocolate scone. Warmed.”

“Mocha, espresso, hazelnut. Warm chocolate scone. Got it.”

As Rowan stood at the counter, placing and then waiting for their order, Aelin made sure to appear the picture of nonchalance. She leaned back in her seat, inspecting her fingernails. She angled her head just so in an attempt to peer at him from behind her lashes without looking too obvious. It was a practiced art, subtlety, one she knew when to use and when to damn to hell. In order to find some grasp on the upper hand, Aelin knew the skill would need to be put to use.

“Your dentist must hate you with that sweet tooth.”

He placed the scone in front of her, followed by the steaming blue mug that begged to be held between her palms. Aelin studied him as he sat down, squinting as she realized he had no food.

“I hope you don’t expect me to share,” she said, gesturing to the scone. Tendrils of warm, chocolaty scent wafted to her nose and she breathed in deep, eyes closed shut, letting a pleasant, deep noise hum in the back of her throat. “ _Mm, yeah —_ definitely not sharing.”

“If you were going to practically orgasm over the smell of a scone,” he said tightly, “I wouldn’t have gotten you one.”

She opened one eye, then the other, smirking. She broke the baked good in half, picking at the middle and taking a bite. Savoring it, she watched him watching her so she made a show of licking her bottom lip once she swallowed. “That wasn’t an orgasm noise,” she said finally, her voice low. “You’d know.”

“Noted.”

“Have you always been such a prude? I’m surprised you could even manage to say the word without blushing.”

“I’m not a prude,” Rowan countered. “I’m just a fan of propriety.”

“Uh huh, yeah. So, I’m proprietiously enjoying the cafe’s home baked scones is all.”

“That’s not a word,” he scowled.

She shrugged, taking another bite. She noticed the relief that flashed across his face, as if thankful she couldn’t speak while chewing food. He allowed himself to sip at his coffee. From across the table she could see it was just a simple black coffee.

How boring.

“However— if you want to hear me orgasm, Rowan, all you’ve got to do is ask.” 

He choked on his coffee, setting the mug down in such a panic that some of the hot liquid spilled over the side and onto his hand. He reached for a napkin, cleaning up his mess, pointedly avoiding her calm stare.

“Perhaps that’s what you wanted to talk about, and why it had to be in person?”

“No, Aelin,” he said, his voice entirely unamused.

“Then?”

“Shut up and eat your scone,” he said, the frustrating lining his voice only furthering her amusement.

“So bossy,” she said and took a sip of coffee.

Magnetism, she mused, went both ways. There was the potential to draw together as much as to repel. And in this moment, sat across from him at a small table, Aelin very pointedly worked towards the repelling motion. For every action, she’d perform the opposite. Rowan rolled his eyes, so she smiled. Each command was met with a quiet, unspoken resistance.

It seemed to infuriate him, so it fueled her.

“Lysandra supposes I should’ve called the cops,” she said after a moment. He merely raised a brow, cutting further sharp lines across his face. “She says it could’ve been an intimidation. A threat. You know,  _you owe me_.” Her voice was a deep, low, inaccurate mockery of his voice.

“I wasn’t —  _christ_.” Rowan rest his elbows on the table, the uneven legs causing it to rumble before settling beneath his bodyweight. His fingertips rubbed at his temples, and she wondered whether it was for show or because a headache was genuinely coming on. “It wasn’t a threat.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “It wasn’t a threat,” he repeated, softening his features with what she assumed took a great deal of effort. Softness was repelled from Rowan more than it was drawn to him. “I thought — never mind. Sorry.” The word was tight from him, as if it exhausted him to mutter the word. “I — how’s your coffee?”

She watched him with raised brows, curious about the way he fumbled over his words. It seemed rather unlike him — though, Aelin realized, it wasn’t like she knew him well by any stretch of the imagination. After all, she began the day expecting him to Venmo her for a dry cleaning bill and here she is drinking coffee with him.

“Not nearly as orgasmic as the scone,” she teased, “but still delicious.” After a pause, Aelin added: “Thanks.”

“Hark! Manners.”

“Only sometimes, and only when deserved.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as if in an almost-smile, and she sat up straighter. Aelin took her mug between both hands, the ceramic warming her palms. It sat nicely in her grasp, the feel of it cozy. Breathing in deep, she reveled in the warmth.

There was a long moment of silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, per say, but Aelin felt it stretching tight between them. She was rarely at a loss for words, often driving conversation with an empowerment and entitlement of someone who was used to getting their way. It was a confidence born of circumstance, though no less genuine or valid than one which might have had to be worked at.

“So is this a date?” Aelin questioned, at the exact same time that Rowan said, “I’ve got a favor to ask you.”

Each raised their brows at the other, gesturing between them as if allowing their counterpart to hold court. Aelin willed her blush away, fussing instead with her mug and taking a too-big sip of her mocha that nearly had her coughing. She hated herself for the fumbling idiot her mouth liked to make itself out to be when she was near him. Damnit all to hell — she couldn’t even blame this one on Lysandra.

“A favor?”

“A date?”

Again, their words overlapped. Rowan was the first to relent, though, sitting back in his chair and making a zipping motion over his lips before handing the floor to her. She rose her brows in question, hesitant to start speaking now. He shook his head before jutting his chin at her.

“You brought me here to ask me a favor…” she said, her voice hanging half in question at the statement. Well, it set things straight regarding the  _date_  she inquired after. Perhaps if she got him talking enough, he’d forget she ever even said anything. “And you’re sure it has nothing to do with dry cleaning?” She tried smoothing the air with a half-hearted joke while her fingers reached for her scone, tearing it into bits and crumbs.

This was the second pastry he had her demolishing, she thought bitterly.

“No dry cleaning.”

He studied her with an intensity that almost made her drop her gaze, but Aelin was determined to save some face. She stared right back, unblinking, chin raised.

“Then what?”

“It’s — a bit of a stretch. And you don’t have to say yes. The whole  _you owe me thing_? That was a joke. Bad form, definitely. But it wasn’t — a threat.“

“You know, the more you say something the meaning has a tendency to get lost,” she joked. His jaw tightened and she watched his eyes flicker with a light akin to worry. It was her turn to roll her eyes, the look slight as she waved him forward with a sigh. “Go on, lay it on me. Spit it out.”

“I’ve a wedding coming up and I need someone to go with me,” Rowan said in an even, flat voice. His eyes bore into hers, betraying no emotion in sharp contrast to the flicker of  _many_  that crossed Aelin’s face.

“Someone to go with you,” she repeated slowly, blinking.

“Ideally you.”

“Ideally me.” Again, the words were drawn out long and slow.

“You wouldn’t have to pay for anything, of course. I’d take care of all that,” he said, his voice maintaining that careful evenness as if worried he’d lose steam and just derail the whole request. “I just need my aunt to think I’ve got my shit together, that I’m dating someone.”

“ _Ha!”_ The sound burst forth from Aelin’s mouth, a sharp and unamused sound. She steepled her fingers at her mouth, eyebrows drawn together in quiet consternation. She caught the flush on his neck, working its way further up to sharp cheekbones. He’d opened his mouth to start speaking, but she held up a hand and waved him quiet. To her surprise, he obeyed.

“Just to clarify,” she started, the words spoken crisp and clear as if explaining simple arithmetic to a child. “You’ve got a wedding to go to. Have no date. Are  _expected_  to have a date. But not just  _a date_. It’s meant to look as if we are  _dating_. Verb. The act of dating. As in eating food, watching movies, holding hands, stealing your best sweaters, and snuggling. That kind of dating?”

He at least had the grace to hesitate before shrugging and saying as if it were the most natural thing in the world: “Yeah.”

“We’re  _definitely_  doing this Tinder thing wrong.”

“We’ll make our own rules,” Rowan said, hands wrapped tight around his cup of coffee. White knuckles betrayed the calm he attempted to showcase as his eyes met hers in a show of reigned-in anticipation.

Aelin leaned forward in her chair, propping her elbows on the tabletop. With fingers laced, she braced her chin upon her knuckles and appraised him coolly. She had no intention of saying no, Aelin found herself realizing with no small amount of shock. Perhaps it wasn’t so odd, she reasoned. She just liked weddings. The show, the flashiness, the ugly bridesmaid’s dresses. Free champagne was a positive, too. Any occassion to get dressed up and don a new pair of heels was welcomed with open arms and a flashy manicure.

That was the only reason she was agreeing, she told herself, as she curled her lips into a half-smirk and offered: “Sure.”

“— Yeah, then?”

“I’ve got nothing to lose, I figure. I get a free meal and some drinks out of it. And even if it crashes and burns, it’s not  _my_  reputation on the line.” His face darkened, and she couldn’t help the genuine laugh that trickled past her lips. “Relax, Rowan. Honestly, you’re so tightly wound. Speaking of names, though — I don’t even know your last name. If we’re going to be in a fake relationship, we should probably start there.”

He paused — King of Hesitations today, she noticed. Without the ease of alcohol, he came off as even more reserved, stone-like in his manner. Was this his typical personality or simply an effect of whatever high-stakes wedding he was meant to attend? She quirked a brow, tilting her chin ever so slightly, prompting his answer.

“Rowan Whitethorn,” he said finally, his voice tight.

“Aelin Galathynius, at your service,” she said, and stuck her hand out. All good deals were best sealed with a gentlemanly shake of the hands. Rowan’s face betrayed brief amusement followed by annoyance as his fingers closed around hers. His palm was cool and rough to the touch, she noticed, as she gave a firm squeeze. “Hello, boyfriend. Pleased to meet you.”

And as she flashed a wicked grin, Aelin could have sworn she saw a moment of regret in his eyes as Rowan came to realize just precisely what he had managed to get himself into.

xxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> author’s note ; okay a bit of a wait for this chapter but i hope you enjoy all the same! i’m having so much fun writing this, and i hope you’re enjoying where i’m taking this. this little tinder au has turned into a place for me to stash all my silly favorite tropes apparently, sO ENJOY. comments and kudos and views are most appreciated!!! thank you gorgeous readers xo


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was barely twenty minutes late today. Aren’t you proud of me?” 
> 
> “Terribly.”
> 
> “Do I get a reward, then? I respond best to fine chocolates, coffee, and well-tuned fingers.”

“If it’s not a date,” Lysandra said smoothly as she painted over her navy nails with clear polish, “then why are you fussing like you ordinarily would  _for_  a date?”

“It is a  _date._ By technical definition, it’s a date. Two people hanging out at a predetermined location and time— that’s a date. It’s just not a  _date_ -date. Which, by technical definition is the sort where you keep a flask in your bag just in case it’s going particularly horrible and some dry shampoo and clean underwear in case it’s going particularly  _good_.”

Aelin paused, considering her reflection in the mirror for a long moment. “And whether it’s a date, or a  _date-_ date, it’s just assumed you’ve got to look damn good.” She scowled as she tugged at the hem of her blouse before pulling it off altogether.

“Whatever you say, dear.”

“Don’t  _dear_ me.”

“Case in point,” Lysandra pressed on, ignoring her. She was looking up now from her hand and jabbing a freshly lacquered finger in her direction.

“Case in point  _what_?” she asked, exasperated. Aelin set her fists upon hips, cocked to the side. Her hair fell over a bare shoulder and brushed just past her collarbones, feathering along the line of her low-cut, unlined bra crafted from only the finest of black lace.

“That,” the brunette said thickly.

“I’m going to be wearing a shirt, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, and you’ll have Rachel Green nipples all night.” Aelin groaned while Lysandra chuckled. “I’m just saying,  _dear_ , if you didn’t have it even a little in your mind as a date, you wouldn’t be wearing your pretty lingerie. I’m guessing there’s some underwear to match?” Another dismayed grumble, quieter this time as she launched herself back into the closet to continue wading through her best garments.

“Well?” Lysandra prompted in response to Aelin’s silence.

“Leave me and my lacy nipples alone.”

“Case. In. Point,” she said with a punctuated jab between each word as Aelin emerged from her closet.

Black leather moto jeggings accentuated her long legs, clinging to curvy hips and meeting the hem of the sleek silk camisole that hung off her torso. The loose-fitting swing top left just enough to the imagination while showing off the assets she wanted. She held out her arms, her top rising to reveal a sliver of skin in the process, and did a slow twirl for her friend.

Lysandra nodded her head in careful appraisal. “What shoes are you going to do?”

“These?” Aelin suggested, ducking briefly into her closet again to snag the shoes up for discussion. A simple suede ankle bootie with an open toe and slim four inch heel dangled from her finger. “Or,” she cooed, revealing another option in her other hand. The velvet pump with a chunky heel wasn’t her first choice, and she was thankful when Lysandra pointed to the boot in her right hand.

“You should wear that choker you have. The cord one that ties.”

“It’s like you’ve read my mind,” Aelin said with a grin. Sat at her vanity, she set to work on finishing touches.

She couldn’t deny the flurry of butterflies that stampeded around her insides. There was something utterly, primally alluring to the man with whom she was about to have dinner. And perhaps the appeal lay in his reluctance. Even though Rowan had denied her, in a sense, there was never an air of rejection surrounding. Rather, Aelin found the entire situation to harbor an odd sort of magnetism she’d never encountered before but has been ruminating on since their first encounter.

She’d never been a non-date date before and couldn’t be sure how that might change things between them — if at all. Luckily, Aelin decided she was up for the challenge. Certainly, it was interesting. If nothing else, it was a free meal and a drink or two with someone she was undeniably fascinated by and attracted to. What could possibly go wrong?

“Are you going to fake fuck on your fake date?” Lysandra’s voice dragged her from her thoughts.

“I’m ignoring you now.” Aelin shot her friend a glare over her shoulder before returning to her reflection to paint her lips with a steady hand. Satisfied, she stared at herself with a critical eye to make sure all was in place. Her brows had just enough arch, her lashes thick to frame vibrant turquoise eyes. The hint of gold was brought out with the deep chocolate shadow, creating a smoky look that complimented her skin. Her cheeks were bright with a classic rosy blush while accented with a subtle, golden highlight in just the right places. The deep berry matte lips completed the look. She gave a small hum of approval, turning to face Lysandra.

“Well?”

Lysandra’s immediate grin and waggled eyebrows were affirmation enough.

xxx

Rowan didn’t know what he’d gotten himself into, just that he was thankful for the drink he had before Aelin arrived. It was stupid, he knew, to be so damn nervous. He had to keep reminding himself this was all fake, that the stakes were so pitifully low he shouldn’t even care. Regardless, he arrived at the restaurant with shaky hands and a dry mouth that he immediately set about curing.

He was thankful for Aelin’s tardiness this time. Sure, perhaps it was poor form to chug a glass of wine before meeting your dinner companion, but all rules were rather blurred now so he tried not to judge himself too harshly. The waiter certainly was, if the lingering glances with a wrinkled nose narrowed eyes were any indication.

Rowan had posed the idea of dinner the following weekend after they met for coffee. He told her it would be a good chance for them to get to know one another. If Aelin were coming to the wedding, she’d be expected to have some base knowledge of him and his family. The idea was anxiety-inducing. A typically private person, Rowan did not easily offer up information and the gates were closed even tighter after Lyria. He wondered how much he could release while still keeping enough of himself his.

This entire thing was crazy. He felt as if he’d lost the plot of his life by this point. Rowan could barely tell left from right where Aelin was concerned. All he knew was there was a strange, almost primal pull towards her. He had considered several times calling and telling her he changed his mind and was going to go to the wedding on his own. He’d composed five different texts over the course of the week to break the whole deal off. And yet, here he still sat. Red wine on his tongue, his heart thumping wildly, and his eyes constantly drawn to the restaurant entrance only to feel a pang of disappointment each time it wasn’t the leggy blonde he wanted to see walk through those doors.

Until it was.

And his mouth went completely dry, a feat considering its original state.

She was fucking stunning and she knew it. The confidence she exuded was palpable as she stalked her way to his table like a lioness in full predator mode. And he certainly did feel like the prey here — the way she took long, steady steps and swayed her hips just enough. She shrugged off her form-fitted leather jacket so that by the time she reached him it took extraordinary effort to not linger too much on the expanse of smooth skin across her shoulders leading to her chest.

“Hello, boyfriend,” she sang, sinking into the chair across from his.

“You don’t have to call me that,” he grumbled. He hoped his face was composed and not flushed red the way the prickling at his cheeks threatened. It was a wish unlikely to be granted.

“But I’m practicing. I’d hate to be unconvincing in my role come time.”

“I’m not the one you’re needing to convince. This is just…” His voice trailed off as he grappled for the right words. A date? A nice dinner? Getting to know one another? She was looking at him with an expectant, raised brow. A gaping fish in that moment, his mouth opened and closed with indecision. He knew he looked foolish, hated himself for it. Thankfully, he was saved having to answer with the waiter came over.

A glass of wine Rowan didn’t recall ordering was already in the suited man’s hand, that same smarmy look from earlier still plastered on the bastard’s face. Rowan straightened, his face hardening and effectively washing away all the previous uncertainty.

“I thought you’d be wanting a second round,” the waiter said with a perfected air of condescension that faltered for only a moment. Rowan wondered whether he were upset that his dinner guest had, indeed, arrived.

“For me?” Aelin cooed before Rowan could reply. “How thoughtful. How’d you know I was fancying a glass of wine?”

Her words and eyes were steadily were directed at him while a dainty hand reached for the wine with slight impatience. Rowan couldn’t help the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, a near almost-smile.

Once the stem was poised between her fingers, she waved the waiter away with a graceful gesture of her other hand. All the while, Aelin’s eyes remained on him. It was unnerving. No one person should invest in that much eye-contact, surely. Wasn’t there a balance, a limit?  _Something_?

It set fire to his core, and he hated it.

He refused to be the one to look away, though — wondered whether she was thinking the same thing. Had they unknowingly engaged in some sort of unspoken staring contest? It seems the sort of thing she’d start. There was a perpetual sense of challenge coming from the woman sat before him. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was losing whatever game they were in. Being here, at dinner with her, did seem to indicate such — even if it was all crafted from his own devising.

“Started without me?” Her smooth voice cut through his thoughts like a knife, piercing and glimmering. She conceded, eyes dipping to the glass in hand as she swirled its ruby-red contents inside.  

“You were over a half hour late for coffee,” Rowan said. He kept his voice low, quiet. “I could only imagine how long you’d be late for dinner. I had to entertain myself somehow.”

She savored a sip of wine while he ignored the way she eyed him from behind thick lashes. His third encounter with the young woman and he was no closer to figuring out how, precisely, she managed to get so under his skin. It was as if the second he caught one look, one smell, one touch of her there was no going back. He fought it as best he could, but Rowan knew he was doomed. If not by his own actions, then for the mere fact that Aelin Galathynius did not seem the sort to be often denied what she sought.

A lioness indeed. And he, her prey.

But he wasn’t without his own defenses, he knew. Rowan had long since mastered his ability to close himself off. He glowered with the best of them and could easily set about being unapproachable. A part of him wondered if Aelin would even notice, or continue to barrel on through his attempt at a defense mechanism.

“How’s the wine?” he forced himself to ask as he realized she hadn’t said anything.

“Are you sure you don’t need this?”

_No_. “Yes.”

“I was barely twenty minutes late today. Aren’t you proud of me?”

“Terribly.”

“Do I get a reward, then? I respond best to fine chocolates, coffee, and well-tuned fingers.”

The way she leaned forward on the arm braced atop the table, pushing her breasts up and out, was far from lost on him. How could it be? The laces of her necklace (could it be called that, the thin corded thing tied there about her neck?) almost seemed to frame her cleavage, the ends brushing into the depths of her chest. He cursed himself and his eyes for following the lines, however brief. He knew fully well she was aware of the look.

“I only mean an innocent massage, of course,” Aelin added, shifting again — but he was prepared this time and steeled himself and his eyes against the temptation to watch just how she moved her body.

“A massage?” His brow furrowed, betraying his confusion.

“Mhm. In reference to the well-tuned fingers. I’d hate for you to think I meant something improper.”

“I’m not rewarding you for something that should be a basic human consideration,” he said cooly.

“Time is a construct, anyway. It’s not real. How else do you explain time zones?” She swirled her glass of wine with a heady look from behind thick lashes.

“The fact that the Earth moves and is thus affected by the sun’s placement at a particular time of day…?”

“Sounds like a load of shit to me,” she said decidedly, punctuating her words with a slow sip of wine.

“Then the world should be thankful you’re not a scientist or something. What  _do_  you do, anyway?”

_There_ , Rowan thought, pleased with himself. A perfect segue into normal conversation that people might share over a dinner table. Besides, if he was bringing her around his family under the guise of not being an utterly pitiful hermit (he was capable of admitting his faults) and thereby having enough of a social life to have a significant other, then he ought to know a bit about her apart from her name and her penchant for being late.

And the sinful way she moved.

Which she demonstrated, as if reading his thoughts, slinking back and leaning an elbow over the back of her chair, yet again slowly swirling that glass of wine. His eyes slipped down the length of her frame before catching himself and meeting her eyes.

(A mistake; the grin she wore certainly meant she was all-too-pleased with herself.)

“Shouldn't you have vetted me before you asked me to be your girlfriend?”

“I’m not —  _Christ_. Can you ever just answer a damn question, Aelin?”

Rowan scowled, surging forward in a burst of frustration come to a head. His height was certainly an advantage as he hardly needed to stand to reach across the table enough to snatch the wine from his companion’s hand. His palm lay at the edge of the table nearest Aelin, propping himself up as he downed the last of the glass while still hovering by her. Steeling his nerves, he didn’t even blink as she sat back up in her chair, straight backed and no longer slouched.

Her face was so near his that he immediately caught her scent: something deep and feminine and warm and completely intoxicating. It was the first time, too, he noticed the faint smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. They shone like flecks of gold in the surrounding amber light. He had half a mind to count them, one after the other, and wondered whether they brushed along her shoulders, too, and further beyond. He was about to dip his head closer to look when a touch brought him back to present.

Aelin’s hand had closed around the wrist that held the wine glass, her thumb brushing against the (suddenly hypersensitive) pressure point and making his pulse jump. Her nose was near his, and for one strangely conflicting moment he wondered whether she were about to kiss him.

He welcomed the thought as much as warded it off.  _Fuck_.

xxx

She wanted to kiss him.

It was a fact she could admit in the depths of her own brain, though never aloud. Definitely not out loud. Aelin supposed she was only human, though, and it was likely that not even one gifted with superpowers could possibly withstand the way Rowan was looking at her just then.

The way he attempted to avoid looking at her only made it sexier when she caught him at it, eyes roving heavily across her body. His gaze inspired a heat across her skin, prickling and spreading and making her throat dry enough to warrant the glass of wine she had eagerly snatched up.

“I believe that was mine,” she said after what felt like a too-long moment of resting her hand on his wrist. Her voice was softer than she intended, betraying the attempt at snark.

And as if her words snapped him out of whatever reverie he existed in, Rowan sank back into his chair and was quick to slide the glass of wine across to her yet again. The liquid sloshed along the edges with the motion, but she didn’t reach for it. Aelin watched him carefully, the stoic expression and hard set of his jaw. Cut like ice, he was.

“Why’d you ask me here if you’re just going to scowl?” she said after a moment, still in the process of realigning her sense of self. The tingling in her skin subsided somewhat and the heat in her cheeks had dimmed to a manageable lukewarm. “It must be difficult to eat dinner when your face is stuck like that.”

“I wouldn’t have to scowl so much if you’d just —”

“Just  _what_?”

Aelin cut him off with a scoff and a swig, the wine dangerously nearing the rim of the glass as she did so. (This in spite of its less-than-half full status: she had very little control of her fervent motions during times of distress.) The indignation hit deep and deadly and with a sudden spark not unlike a match, growing immediately bright with a single strike.

“In case you’ve forgotten,” she continued, draining the last of the wine and thankfully not sacrificing a single drop, “I’m doing you a favor here.”

“One I’m beginning to think I’m crazy for having asked of you,” he said with something akin to bitterness in his voice.

“You probably are!” A sharp laugh left her lips. “For fuck’s sake, we’ve hardly gotten along,  _ever_ , and here you are wanting to tote me along to your aunt’s wedding. That’s got to be close to clinically insane, Whitethorn.”

The scowl was in full force now, knitting brows together and sharpening the lines of his face. “You’re the one who agreed.”

“ _Yeah_ , because I want to  _fuck you_ ,” Aelin spat.

“Ready to order?”

Both heads turned to the waiter who had appeared, she could have sworn, out of damn nowhere. But his smug voice had cut through the space, adding to the building tension, and now two sets of eyes looked on with a mix of confusion and irritation. The man seemed only encouraged by such, if his smirk and quirked brow were any indication.

“I’ll have the fondu appetizer, the bruschetta, and the most expensive meal on your menu, thank you very much,” she said with a pointed look at Rowan. He’d better believe he’d be paying for this mess of a dinner, and she was determined to get her money’s worth. “And get me a house bottle of red.”

“And for you?” the waiter asked, turning his attention to the still-scowling man across from her.

“We’re sharing.” Rowan stuck her with a challenging look.

“Like hell we are,” Aelin scoffed.

“And a scotch for me,” he added, deliberately ignoring the protests with an air of calm that could only be derived from her own lack thereof. The waiter left after a moment’s hesitation.

“Fine.”

“Fine? Did I need your permission to order a drink?” The coolness in his voice was back, only making the fire in her prickle further.

“I was talking about sharing my damn dinner, you prick. But you’ll have to try much harder to share my dessert, Rowan.”

“You’ve made it very clear what you’d like for me to have for dessert, Aelin.” His euphemism was made pointedly clear with a sweep of his eyes over her chest.

A flush rose up her neck, a betraying hint of embarrassment. How had she so easily lost the upper hand she spent an hour dressing and primping for? He’d been so easy to catch off guard, to make fumble over his words. And damned if she hadn’t been doing a good job of it earlier. She saw the looks he gave, the lingering eyes across any exposed skin as she drew his attention precisely where she wanted it.

Of course, she knew how her grip had slipped so swiftly.

Self-sabotage existed as a far easier notion in her mind than admitting to a desire for intimacy. His looks and stares provoked in her a vulnerability she wasn’t fond of existing. After all, when one spends so long attempting to steel oneself against such a feeling, it can be very jarring when something of it slips back in.

So she lashed out.

She knew it. He probably did, too.

And all the heat in her face that had before been thanks to his lusting stares was now owed to the cocktail of frustration and embarrassment she’d served herself.  _Well fucking done_ , she thought bitterly.

“It can’t be that much of a surprise,” she said with a half-won attempt at haughty calm in her voice.

“Unusual flattery coming from you.”

“No. Just that  _this_ ,” she said with a flap of her hand between them, “happened because of Tinder. Hookups, remember? So why should you be surprised by any of this?”

Talking helped her voice to grow in small increments. If she could just keep hold of the thread there was perhaps a chance she might recover something of her dignity. With any luck, even, she might manage to gain back the upper hand. Her eyes stayed on his with the intention of such, her hand itching for a glass of wine to hold.

“Because. I’d told you already that I wasn’t here to fuck you.” He waved his arms in front of him with a contained, sweeping gesture as if to indicate an all-encompassing  _here_.

“Oh, of course. Just to get over your ex. I can’t imagine  _why_  she left you,” Aelin sneered with a roll of the eyes. “You’re simply so agreeable and wonderful to be around. I don’t blame the poor girl one bit.”

“Aelin,” he warned.

“Yes, boyfriend?” she cooed sweetly, sickening honey spiked with poison dripping from each syllable. “Is that not what you wanted to hear? A truth?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” His voice was a growl, and it delighted her.

“Maybe not,” Aelin allowed with a shrugged. “Or maybe I’m right on the nose and that’s why you’re getting so upset.”

“You’re just irritating me.”

“I always irritate you.”

“ _You’re a god damn entitled brat._ ”

“Mhm, yes. I’m a brat and you’re a bastard. This is nothing new,” she said, daring a laugh and leaning back in her chair with newfound confidence. She folded her arms across her chest, chin raised in defiance.

“God, I can’t listen to your voice right now,” Rowan seethed, pushing off from the table and rising to his feet in one swift motion that rattled the silverware and water glasses, earning glances from their surroundings.

Aelin watched as he stalked off to the restrooms. Once he was behind closed doors, she slouched over the table, letting out a deep exhale.  _God, this is exhausting_. If she had half a sane thought left in her brain, she’d up and leave. Why ought she subject herself to his scowling and grumpy moods and lusty looks? Sure, she liked a challenge perhaps more than she should — but there had to be lines.

Ones she crossed just as well.

She sighed, sitting back up in time to see the waiter coming over with a glass of scotch and a bottle of wine. She’d never been so thrilled to see alcohol before, not bothering with the prerequisite tasting pour. The waiter looked positively offended when she waved him off. Aelin even went so far as to reach for the bottle as she offered one of her best withering glares. He didn’t quite relent and insisted on pouring her glass, though he was aghast as she requested him to keep going beyond the regular line.

“Don’t worry,” she’d comforted, “it’ll be at the pour line in the blink of an eye.” And before he could question, she slugged back a giant swig and didn’t stop until the ruby liquid was, indeed, precisely at the pour line.

He had left very quickly after that.

She didn’t know how much longer she would be left with her thoughts only for company, just that it wasn’t favorable. The wine from earlier and what she’d just quickly consumed already swam circles in her head. Her cheeks tingled with it, fingers prickling with the need to —

Move.

Do something.

Downing half of what was left in her glass, Aelin rose with much the same vigor that Rowan had just previously. Sitting wasn’t an option. Not when she felt entirely unresolved of self. It was like her body consisted of loose ends, circuits sparking dangerously. She didn’t know who was more at fault: herself or Rowan. It didn’t matter much, she supposed.

She teetered by a crossroads consisting of full tables, wondering whether she ought to step outside for air or simply splash water on her face. Spying a sea of smokers lingering by the restaurant doors, she opted for the latter and marked her pace towards the restrooms.

So it was with purpose that she strode, closing the distance to the set of doors. She started to glance for the women’s restroom, but it didn’t matter when at that precise moment the door farthest from her swung open. The tall, broad, silvery-haired man turned sharply from the threshold and directly into her.

Aelin let out a noise of surprise, her arms up in instinctive defense. Her body tensed as she realized whose chest her fists rest against. She couldn’t bring herself to pull away from Rowan, flattening her palms against the smoothness of his shirt, the warmth of his body setting her all but on fire. And there was surprise of his own, she knew, judging by the way he could hardly move from her. His body was rigid, stuck still, except for the settling of his hands against her hips, fingers uncurling and spreading one-by-one.

She recalled the last time he’d held her steady, as she wobbled from her own chair and promptly spilled whisky all down his back.

Her cheeks were aflame and she was thankful for the darkness of the hallway to hide the redness on her skin. Her breaths came heavier, warmth flooded skin, nipples tingling as they peaked. Aelin dared to glance up at him, not wanting to risk his hand leaving her side, craving the effect a touch so simple had on her.

But it didn’t — not even as she leaned closer into him.

And it didn’t, as she rose to tiptoes to find herself closer yet.

No, his hands only slid with near imperceptible motion towards the small of her back — slow and sinful in their travel. She felt a pressure there as his fingers pressed against the sliver of skin exposed beneath the hem of her tank.

Desire was written plain on his face, and she knew it to be mirrored back on her own. There was every chance he could hear the pounding of her heart against her chest that waged war against the evident lust. She hated him as much as she wanted him and she wasn’t sure which side was most likely to win.

“ _Aelin_  —” he began to rasp, the sound grating against her skin and sending jolts of hot awareness to her core.

Her mouth crashed against his with an intensity that she’d not felt in ages, if ever. She had to brace herself against his lean frame with palms sliding to his shoulders. His large hands tightened their grips to steady her further. There was nothing soft nor tender in the clashing of their lips, but rather a ferocious sort of event — no doubt a culmination of their earlier sparring. Which, perhaps this was merely another form. He responded in kind, meeting her breath for breath, sweep for sweep, noise for noise. She couldn’t keep the moan entirely at bay as he worked his tongue into her mouth; he didn’t suppress a growl as she nipped at his lower lip.

They were a choir of lips, teeth, tongues all coming together with a discordant kind of harmony. She could hardly breathe, didn’t care, only needed more —

_More_.

Only it had turned to nothing.

Hands that had before warmed her back now felt cool as ice against her shoulders, pressing her down and away. Her chest rose and fell in heavy pants and she was satisfied to see his own did the same. A wrinkle of confusion settled between her brows but she didn’t get a chance to ask for any of the clarity she desired before Rowan was sweeping past her.

Any thoughts of a clarifying splash of water to clear her mind and make her feel like she were no longer short-circuiting were gone.

She followed with a rush of her own, making her way to the table a mere breath after him. It was now laden with appetizers. Aelin opened her mouth, but he spoke first.

“Don’t.” His hand tightened around the scotch though didn’t yet raise it to his lips.

“Don’t …? ” she let out in a puff of air, not even bothering to attempt a normal voice. She still felt breathless. Was breathless. Couldn’t catch herself.

“Touch me,” he said in the lowest, most painfully serious tone she’d heard yet. “Don’t touch me like — that.”

“Like what?” she questioned, not even attempting to hide the bitter flush of red painting her cheeks.

“ _That_ ,” Rowan hissed vaguely, flapping a hand at her. She couldn’t help but glance down at herself — chest still heaving slightly, lips parted, top slightly askew. Clenching her jaw, she steeled herself against his words the best she could. “That,” he repeated, as if to himself. “The wanting.  _Don’t_.”

“Fuck you,” she breathed, because it felt a lot like rejection where it never had before.

“I’m calling you a car,” he said after a moment, running a hand over his face. The skin at the small of her back prickled in remembrance of how those hands felt in their ever-brief existence on her.

Rowan set about on his phone, intent on ordering her some ride or another. She couldn’t even protest, the whiplash of the entire night sitting heavy in her chest. Aelin couldn’t bring herself to apologize or argue or question anything about what had just happened.

Without sparing another word or even glance, she rose from the table and started to the doors. She’d call her own damn car and get her own damn self out of this horrible damn mess. It took all self control to not turn back and see if he watched her leave. She couldn’t meet his eyes, didn’t want to see any sort of look on his face.

Rejection. That was, without any doubt in her mind,  _rejection_.

It sat like acid on her tongue the whole way home.

_Fuck him._

xxx

Aelin was gone before he could even finish getting her that car. He thought about calling for her to wait, a half-baked apology resting precariously on the tip of his tongue. He said nothing. Instead, she left, taking her warmth and mouth and scent with her. Not her jacket though. That lay in his hands as he perched at the end of his bed, ruminating over what a god damn asshole he was. And while Rowan Whitethorn had never claimed to be soft or kind or considerate, he knew this was a lot even for him.

He had paid for the uneaten meal, didn’t even bother bring it home. Didn’t want to. He told himself it was because he didn’t deserve it, but knew that the real reason was a sort of cowardice at not wanting any reminder sitting around in his refrigerator.

Unfortunately for him, a reminder existed all the same in the shape of a form-fitting jacket that held onto wisps of her intoxicating scent paired with the leather of the garment. He hadn’t parted from it the entire time he’d been home. He couldn’t part from it.

He couldn’t stop remembering the way she’d risen to kiss him, how her lips felt against his, the tiny moan that slipped out. His hands were burned forever recalling the feel of her flesh, even the tiniest sliver between articles of clothing. She smelled divine and tasted even better. He couldn’t have eaten that meal even if he wanted, because Rowan had sampled her and now it was the only thing his appetite wanted.

Aelin sat like sugar on his tongue, an addiction in the making.

_Fuck me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience - i know it was quite a wait on this chapter! holidays, work, art, general hermit-ing. i hope you enjoy it and it makes up for how long this took!! tbh this is a rather indulgent chapter with a lot of pining and fighting. ENJOY!!


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